“Roloooo,” Zira called into yet another alley. She was sinking into frustration, but clinging to hope. She worried so much about him. She thought he would be eager to come home, so why did he run away when he saw her? Was he mad at her? Why, what did she do? Or did Smuffins make him do it? Worries knotted in her stomach.

She and Riffa weaved their way along Blorzon Row, an old neighborhood shopping district with tiny stores squeezed side by side. Shoppers milled about the sidewalks in no hurry. Street vendors hawked their assorted wares, shiny trinkets, and eclectic antiques. Newsstands displayed racks of magazines, postcards, flowers, and candies. Small crowds lined up at food carts for hot tofustrami cones, bazooli root wraps, and mustrum-dough pretzels.

A street musician leaning against a brick wall strummed folksy riffs on a vibbertar. A shaggy blorxling standing on a soapbox preached gravely to no one that the universe was ending soon. Old neighborhood residents sipping targon tea outside a cafe argued about which clicketball team was going to win the next sport battle.

Riffa stopped at a clothing rack in front of a thrift store to look at a studded blurgenhide jacket.

“C’mon, Riffa,” whined Zira, “we’re supposed to be finding Rolo, not shopping!”

“I’m just looking.” Riffa grabbed a blorange hoodie and held it up to her. “Hey, this color would look good on you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’ve been wearing that same ratty hoodie for like three years now.”

“I thought you only shopped at Forever 147.”

“What?” scoffed Riffa. “That was like two years ago. See, you don’t know anything about me.”

“Sure I do!”

“Okay, who’s my favorite band?”

“Um. Blorgen Boyz?”

Riffa sneered at her. “Really?!”

Zira shrugged.

Riffa continued, “What’s my favorite type of blizza?”

“Zepperoni!”

“No. That’s your favorite. I like pineazzle—but Mom always gets us zepperoni. Do you even know what Rolo’s favorite food is?”

Zira worried this might be a trick question. She thought she knew, but now she wasn’t so sure. “Zirken tenders?”

“Nope.”

“Yes it is.” Now she was certain. Or so she told herself.

“Don’t you ever notice how he just picks around it?”

Zira looked away and went silent. Why was Riffa picking on her? And why were they wasting time talking about this? They were supposed to be finding Rolo.

But Riffa persisted. “How are you supposed to keep any friends if you just ignore whatever anyone else likes?”

“I have friends!” Zira tensed up. She knew this questioning was leading to a dark place.

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time Zailey came over?”

That was crossing a line! Her best friend Zailey had slowly grown distant and stopped accepting her invitations long ago. Zira never did find out why. It still stung.

“How about Lurna?” Riffa interrogated. “And Borza?”

Zira’s face was flushing, simmering from embarrassment to shame, to resentment, to anger. “Why are you so mean?!” shouted Zira.

“Why are you so selfish?!” shouted Riffa.

“Why don’t you two buy something?!” shouted the shopkeeper, shambling out from behind her counter in the thrift shop.

Zira looked down and avoided eye contact.

“Sorry,” Riffa said to the shopkeeper. “We’re going.”

For the next few minutes, they plodded past the rest of the shops in tense silence. Zira felt wounded inside. She and Riffa bickered all the time, but this time it really hurt—perhaps because it was too close to the truth.

“I’m not selfish,” she mumbled.

Riffa ignored her, which only made her feel worse.

They continued wandering through the maze of twisting neighborhoods of Old Blorgton. They had been searching for hours, but still they were no closer to finding Rolo, who didn’t even want to be found.