I chew my thumbnail as I stare at the prices in the travel agency’s window. Mum’s at the post office; she thinks I’m getting an afternoon snack from Joe’s. Reminder to self: buy something on the way back so I don’t blow my cover.
Italy.
Bali.
London.
Fiji.
America.
It’s the same list as before, only this time the flights to London are cheaper. It feels like that might be a sign, but I’ve never been good at picking up signs. My palms are damp and I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m trekking to Machu Picchu, or standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, or butchering the French language to a Parisian waiter who doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I’m just a guy trying to work out what to do next. (Hint: not computer science or becoming a teenage real-estate mogul.)
I wipe my palms down the front of my T-shirt, head spinning as I try to absorb all the info in the ads.
Cheap London flights!
Exclusive fares for under 26 year olds!
Never a dull moment!
A young agent with slicked hair and a crisp white shirt catches my eye through the window. He grins a toothy grin. Salesman mode is activated.
I look around; there’s no sign of Mum yet.
I walk into the travel agency.