The taxi driver jerked his cab to a stop and threw a meaty, hairy arm across the passenger seat. He spat out the fare. “Twenty-two dollars, kid.”
Twenty-two dollars? For a ten-minute ride?
Michael gulped. “Um, are you sure? Coach said it would be twelve dollars.”
The driver glanced around the inside of his cab before fixing an oily, dead-eye glare at Michael. “Whoever Coach is, he ain’t here, and I’m the one driving. Twenty-two dollars.”
Michael stretched his wallet wide, hoping to find spare cash hidden in its leather folds for the first time ever. He sighed as he handed over too many bills. “How will I get back to the university?”
“Not my problem, kid. Maybe this coach you keep talking about can send you the money.” The driver jerked his head toward the door.
Fragments of defense rushed around Michael’s head—Give me a break; I’m new in this town—but they refused to come out.
As the taxi drove away, Michael slipped his near-empty wallet back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. Maybe the people at this baggage place could help him get back to the university. He jumped as R2-D2 chirped in his hand. He looked at his phone with eager anticipation—maybe Coach had found a way for him to get back.
His heart sank. Dad.
Don’t forget to mention the videos I’ve uploaded, Mikey.
Michael shook his head as he swiped away the message. He shielded his eyes as he stood in front of the building, a massive white, almost translucent, warehouse that, in the summer sun, shone like a beacon in an industrial part of the city. It was a construction zone of fences keeping people out of nothing, with empty fields strewn with rubble and discarded, twisted steel. The only sounds were the squawks of seabirds and trash flapping against the chain link. Michael looked to the left, and then the right. This building stretched a full block, but it had no windows or doors. A large blue-and-white sign broke the shining luminosity of this white box with a chunky arrow and a cheesy exclamation point, announcing that Baggage Services was just around the corner.
Wheeling someone else’s suitcase behind him, Michael’s mind was a blur as his future—immediate and distant—melted before his eyes in the heat. Hardware beckoned once again.
Michael rounded the corner. Again, the building stretched for a full block, and again, he saw no doors or windows. He kept walking, head down, spinning through solutions to his most immediate problem. He came up empty. How am I going to get back to the university? Michael stopped and looked over his shoulder. He’d come halfway down the street, and still there were no doors or windows on this side of the building. Had he missed something? Was the arrow pointing the other way? He sighed. He’d come too far to go back to the front of the building and try the other side.
Michael turned to keep walking, and a door now appeared, not ten feet from him. He did a double take. Where did that door come from? Man, I must have been deep in my thoughts to miss that. On the door was a small blue-and-white sign: Baggage Services!
Michael pushed open the door and wiped his feet on a fluffy white doormat. He walked into a reception area that was a blast of pristine white. The same blue-and-white sign stood proud on an almost-glowing white reception counter. A man in a navy-blue cap sat behind a desk, head down, buried in paperwork.
Michael stood, waiting for recognition.
There was none.
He rocked back on his heels, thinking movement might force this man to look up, to acknowledge him. But he saw only a slight bobbing of the Baggage Services cap.
Michael broke the silence with an ever-so-slight clearing of his throat, the lowest noise he could make to interrupt but not offend. The cap’s peak shot up, and the young man in navy-blue overalls from the airport broke into a broad grin. He stood and tipped his cap as his curly, black hair sprung free across his forehead. “Welcome to Baggage Services. I’m the Baggage Handler. Would you like help with your baggage?”
Michael allowed himself a smile. At least this was a familiar face. Maybe he could help.