Chloe's Diary

Chloe

CHAPTER 1

The accent. Tell me where you're from." The young fool crumpled his Timberlake's bag and leaned over the table. "I could listen to that all day."

I took aim and lobbed a chip at his nose. It bounced off his eyelid, and still he smiled. Quite the idiot. "It's the little things you miss, really. Little, like chips and a shake. Nepal had neither." I stuffed my mouth and eased back. "Is it cold in here? I'm thinner than when I left home, and it seems I'm always cold." I glanced around the terminal - after eight months and hundreds of layovers, they all looked the same. Even the faces blurred. Travelers, different only in age and size. Their voices long ago faded to white noise.

They drifted by me harmlessly, like so many clouds . . .

Then he walked by, and my gaze fixed on him.

He walked between his 'rents. His proud dad. His watchful mum, eyes darting for lanes through the bustle.

The child carried a little Superman bag, and from the look on his face, he was happy. So happy he didn't notice the stuffed bear poking out his bag's zip. So happy he didn't notice the bear fall.

"One minute." I grabbed my own bag, jumped up, and joined the fray, weaving through the crowd. I reached the fallen bear, and a well-dressed loser distracted by his mobile stepped on the toy. I shoved him, and he stumbled and cursed, but he no longer existed to me. I bent down and gently picked up the loved animal, with its patchy fur and one eye.

Little T owned a bear like this.

I pushed forward. Toward the boy. He would want this, need this. I reached the family and placed my hand on Mum's shoulder. She reached for her son's hand and spun around.

"Yes?"

"Your son. He dropped his bear."

The boy's smile widened, and I swallowed hard.

"This nice young lady found Pooh!" Mum knelt beside him, rounding his shoulder with her arm. "What do you say?"

He said nothing, but rather reached out his hands, and I placed the bear inside them. He squeezed the bear and I wanted to squeeze the boy. His almond-shaped eyes, the muted features. He had Down syndrome, and he was perfect.

I backed up slowly. "I just wanted to reunite the two of you. I once had a brother who loved a bear like yours." I turned and walked slowly back toward my new mate. A hundred nobodies parted around me.

Reaching the table, I slumped down into my seat and stroked the tiny number 3 tattooed between my left thumb and pointer.

"What was that about?"

I shook my head. The little boy had looked happy.

"Now, then. What were you saying? Oh, yes. London," I said quietly, glancing at the bloke across the table. "Born in London. Seems forever ago."

"Chloe , it's been almost a year, right? I know we just met, so you can take this or leave it, but, nobody wanders forever. You've got to go home sometime."

I leaned back, and stared upward. "I know a man who never did. He was brilliant. His 'rents put him through university, and he became the most sought-after architect in his class. He had job offers across the United States. But one month before graduation, he packed his bags, left school, left his family and his country. He never went back. He wandered the world digging wells for the poor, building hospitals, churches. I carry a record of his route."

"So you're following in this guy's footsteps."

"No." I took a deep breath. "I don't dig. I don't build, and I will not rot penniless in prison. But his path keeps me safe. People remember him, help me on my way." I scooted nearer. "Have you ever followed what you're running from?"

"Last call, Flight 302 departing for Minneapolis."

"That's me." I rose, reached down, and gathered my bag. "Thanks for the meal. It has earned you a place in my diary, though I've quite forgotten your name. How would you like to be remembered?"

Young fool jumped up and grabbed my wrist. "Take the next flight, Chloe . Let me show you New York City. Honest, if you'd just get to know me . . ."

I pried loose his fingers, and patted his cheek. "We've already met. In Paris and Pakistan and Brazil. Accommodating lads like you are everywhere. If there's one thing I've learned these last eight months, it's this . . . involvements equal pain." My voice fell. "Not that I've always remembered the equation."

I hoisted the strap over my shoulder. "And I've a mate waiting on the far end of this flight."

The last passengers boarded, and I sauntered toward the gate agent. She left her desk and moved toward the gate door. I raised my ticket high.

I would not jog. I would not shout. Those actions belonged to the responsible, to those who cared. The memory of my first flight returned and tugged at the corners of my lips. How early I had arrived. For five hours, I sat nervously inside Heathrow, checking and rechecking my flight's status. But that was before. Before the world reminded me there was always another plane, and revealed to me the wild joys of plan B, the spontaneous path the punctual never travel.

I peeked over my shoulder, blew a kiss to the young fool still watching from a distance.

He would certainly take me in if the agent would not.

She gave a final glance about the gate and our eyes met. She beckoned wildly.

"You on this flight? Get a move on, girl. You came mighty close to missin' the plane."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

She swiped my ticket and I wandered into the tunnel. Tunnels were the Great In-Between. Tucked between the leaving and the arriving, these bridges, these portals, existed on every continent. Inside, I always pictured myself back in London, slogging toward a bus. The same bus. Stuck in the middle.

I hated tunnels, but they were a necessary evil.

Planes - now, they were different. They held mystery and promise, and over the course of my Third World travels, a chicken or two. They also held the very real possibility of death.

I ducked inside and paused in first class, surveying my travel mates. The red-eye from New York to Minneapolis held nothing but the comatose. Self-satisfied businessmen, ties loosened and shirts untucked, returning to knackered wives. Beyond, a sea of the ragged and unwashed. My world.

I greeted the stewardess and slipped toward the rear of the plane, toward the one empty seat, a middle. I opened the overhead and pressed my bag into the compartment, and then paused to analyse my neighbours.

On the aisle, a tall, bald man. He winced and groaned, undoubtedly wishing for hinges with which to fold up his legs. His knees barricaded my row, but he quickly dislodged and stood, likely grateful for one last stretch. Beyond him, tucked into the window seat, sat a good-looking lad with a serious face, his gaze locked in a sketchbook and his pencil working feverishly. He was so absent, he almost blended into the plane.

I eased down in-between.

Neither spoke. I could do worse.

I removed Dad's journal from my jacket pouch, tracing the numbers 1 – 9 – 9 – 5 and the cross on its cover. I removed his shredded map from inside it and a marker from my pocket, and dotted Nepal yellow. A quick count: Eighty stars across five continents.

Dad, I will soon have you beat.

Minutes later, the plane taxied away from LaGuardia. Someday, I would experience New York, but not with an idiot I met at Timberlake's. The cabin lights went dark. I yawned and Aisle Man groaned, but Window Boy reached franticly for his reading beam. He managed to turn on all three vents and hit and cancel the stewardess call twice, but his flummoxed fingers could not locate the light. Sweat formed on his temple, and he muttered about an imminent attack and a lethal threat and an insidious enemy.

All very poor word choices when seated on an aeroplane.

"Hush. Let me help." I reached up and flicked on his beam.

He peeked at me, and as our gazes met, I assigned to him, as was my habit with all handsome blokes, a Possibility of Entanglement score - POE for short. This involved four questions worth three points each, the outcome scored like a football match. The lower the score, the safer for me.

Has he shown himself to be needy? Yes. Three points.

Does he remind you of anyone from London? Oh, the eyes of Jordy Waltham. Three points.

Does he show any interest in you? No. Three points.

Is he an original?

Window Boy dug in his pocket and extracted a tiny pencil sharpener and a baggie filled with shavings. He popped the plastic sharpener lid and picked out three shavings, whispering as he went along, "One, two, three." He placed each minute fleck into the bag, one by one, as if handling the sacred, again whispering the count. Then he carefully sealed the bag, fought it back into his pocket, and gave his pencil precisely three turns inside the sharpener.

I frowned. Is he an original? Yes. Three points.

Total POE score: 12

I exhaled slowly.

I haven't met a twelve in months.

"What's your name, then?" I asked.

His jaw tensed, but he neither glanced up nor spoke.

"Right. Heading home or away?"

This time his hand paused and he double clutched his pencil. He wasn't answering, but he was hearing. An unusual lad.

"I've never been to Minneapolis." I leaned into his shoulder and felt him flinch. "Tell me about it."

"You talk too much."

Direct, emotionless . . . flipping fascinating. I shifted in my seat. He was right, and I couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, I do. And you practice eye contact far too little."

"I look at visitors when I need to, and since I don't need to, and I already know what you want, I will ignore you."

"And what is it that I want?"

"Secrets."

Here, on the outbound from New York, I had happened upon the most interesting bloke yet - a glorious breeze following five parched continents.

"Yes." I licked my lips, my goal only to extract him from his sketchbook. "I do want your secrets. Every single one - and since we have the time, let's start with your name."

His face tightened. "My name is not a secret. Elis. Elis Phinn."

"Hmm. A perfectly sensible name."

"Now you're trying to put me at ease with compliments." Elis stared down at the lights of the city. "Many stars fell tonight. But" - his voice hardened - "just like my name is no secret, it's also no compliment. Your schemes won't work." He paused. "I know where you're from."

"Horrid for me. You've uncovered my clandestine programme, and you know where I'm from. This places me at a slight disadvantage." I craned my neck to see what precious thing he could be sketching, but he raised the book's back cover and blocked my view.

He returned to drawing, and I bit my lip. I couldn't lose him, or this conversation. Though I had to act utterly dim, this nonsense was addictive.

"Did my accent give me away?"

"Your accent." He thought, and shrugged. "You're probably pretending to have an accent. Your dad doesn't have an accent."

I pressed back into my seat. He was right again, depending on perspective. My father, American by birth, never sounded like a Londoner. But Elis's guess on that point was the least of my worries. How had we traversed so much ground? Dad was a topic reserved for my inner circle. Elis was not in that queue.

"You know nothing of the man," I said quietly.

Elis slammed his book shut with a flourish, and stared into me. He was angry, or not - his face gave away so little. Suddenly, I felt very small.

"He's only the most dishonest, selfish, ruthless man in your entire nation. And don't try to deny it. His disgrace is the reason you're here."

I had wriggled free from many scrapes during the course of my adventures; I had only to be quick and clever. But Truth is inescapable.

"How do you know this?"

"You're not the first one he's sent. There was Kayla and Tessa. Both tried to seduce me with their words and discover what I know." He paused. "I never thought Rupert would risk his own daughter in this cover-up."

Rupert? Dad's name was Sean. Okay, Window Boy was certifiably deranged. But he had also come close, too close. I'd matched wits with blokes all over the world, and been jolted by a lad who belonged in a mad house.

Time soon took its toll, and Elis gave in to sleep. He clutched his sketchbook, clearly as dear to him as my diary was to me, against his chest. With a sudden and large slump, he melted against the window, arms limp at his sides, his holy book slipping to his lap.

I stared at his prize. Certifiable or not, Elis had pricked me, as nobody in eight months had. He had no business poking into my family, or dredging up pain from the deep. I decided to poke back.

Gently, I lifted the sketchbook from his thighs, took one peek at Elis, and opened to the first page.

"Not possible."

CHAPTER 2

Miss, you really need to exit the aircraft."

Fifteen minutes had passed since I eased the sketchbook back onto Elis's lap, since Elis woke and grabbed his bag and pushed his way off the plane.

My gaze roamed the face of the stewardess, but it was the pictures from the sketchbook that remained, impressed in my memory.

Page one: A factory. Not maybe a factory, positively a factory, drawn from the inside, from the floor, where huge looms pumped and pumped the cloth. Workers bent, weary looks on their faces. They worked too hard, too long. Just like Mum.

Page four: A prison. Drawn from inside the cell. Through the eyes of a prisoner. To the right, a cell wall, scratched and worn by a million hopeless moments. And at the bottom, hands - guilty hands - upturned. As a younger man, these palms gloried in strength and promise. Now, weathered and wrinkled, they'd taken too much. A murderer's hands? A rapist's hands? A fighter's?

Dad's?

Page seven: Me. Not resembling me, or me from a distance. Me, up close and peeking around a corner. Hesitant. Running from something. Elisreflected my gaze, my vacant mirror gaze. He captured my longing.

These were no abstract drawings. Elisdrew with firm, perfect strokes. More telling than a photo. More, just more.

"Miss, are you all right?" The stewardess laid her hand on my shoulder. I stared at her fingers.

"No."

I rose, squeezed into the aisle, and reached for my bag. It felt heavy slung over my shoulder. For the first time in months I felt weak and crumpled against a seat.

"How did that bloke know my life? In his sketchbook, how could he know it?" I asked, and glanced at the stewardess. "Did you tell him? Wait, how would you know?"

"Do I need to call someone for you?" She stepped out of the aisle to let me pass. "I was supposed to keep a watchful eye on Elis throughout the flight, but maybe you need -"

"A bit of sleep and I'll - I'll be fine."

I wandered off the plane and into a vacant airport.

He's gone. My chest loosened. A random meeting with a paranoid mentalist. Disturbing, but random nonetheless.

"All right, Chloe. Gather yourself."

Money. It would be good to check on where I stood with that. I threw my bag onto a blue plastic seat, tugged on the zip, and took a deep breath.

My bag was not my bag.

"Stop!" I screamed, and raced back down the tunnel. I burst back into the plane and grabbed my stewardess mate. "My dad's journal!" Every caution and tip and all his contacts! Not to mention my own diary. Eight months of everything. Every thought. And photos, of Teeter and Marna and Mum. "This isn't happening!" Together, we executed a frantic search.

"I'm so sorry." She glanced at her watch. "You can fill out a report, and if your backpack turns up . . ."

I would not fill out a report. Not when every moment spent with pen and paper was another moment farther from my bag. No, there would be no report. No paper trail. I would find the idiot who lifted my bag and make the criminal pay.

I hurried back into the terminal and spread the contents of not-my-bag out on the floor.

Men's clothing, bundled and balled on top. This, I expected. I was the only female thief I'd encountered thus far. Beneath the clothing, some personal effects and two medications.

Risperidone and Melatonin. Thieves are always blasted.

I set the drugs aside, and peered into the bottom of the bag.

Paper. Reams of it. Paper laying loose; paper gathered into tablets.

Paper in sketchbooks.

"Oh no," I groaned.

And crumpled among the pages of drawings I dared not examine was a small slip, worn and creased.

Contents of this backpack belong to ElisPhinn.

If found, please contact Guinevere Phinn at:

Phinn's Bed and Breakfast

1 Loring Parkway

Minneapolis, Minnesota

(612) 555 – 0177

Guinevere. So be it. I will not deal with Window Boy. I will sort this out with Guinevere and retrieve my diary and forget this flight.

My stewardess shut down the gate area and joined me.

"Find what you need?"

I held up the address. "Loring Parkway. Is that near?"

She nodded. "Twenty minutes. None too far. It's in the heart of downtown." She started to walk away, and then turned. "Nice thing you're doing, returning it yourself. It might even be fate you wound up with that bag. My dad, he took the wrong bus somewhere in England after the war, and my mom was on it. That's how they met. It turned out that there was a reason for hopping on that wrong bus."

"Thanks, but every bus in England is the wrong bus." I slowly reached for Elis's shirt, flattened it and folded it. Then another, and another. My heartbeat slowed. Left sock, right sock. I lined up the seams of denims, set the folded clothes aside, and gently stacked the papers. Finally, I lifted the items back into the bag.

My mind clear, I hoisted the bag over my shoulder. I would locate Loring Parkway, but now, with my blasted laptop in Elis's possession, I had a greater need . . .

Help Support Children of Incarcerated Parents

500 Days of Wandering, 500 Days of Hope

I hated blogging from my phone, and I hated being rushed. But tucked inside my diary, £3,000 in bills found its way into Window Boy's hands, and his bag didn't return the favor.

Bottom line: I needed money, and for that, my site needed attention.

Compose. Click.

Day 240

I realise, now that I am well into this adventure, just how I long for home, for my precious England. But the need is great, and so is my resolve. (Here, I paused to cough, and continued.) Presently, I find myself in . . .

I stepped onto the people mover, glanced about, and shrugged. I'd only posted a handful of fictional entries, but I needed money, and I'd learned elegance was key.

New Zealand, a beautiful country; in Christchurch, a lovely city. Surrounded by mountains and waterfalls, stretches of plains, and deep-cut valley. These are the views that children of incarcerated parents will never glimpse. This is the air that the incarcerated long to breathe. These hardened ones at least remember freedom. But their unfortunate children languish like downed kites. They are abandoned, unless you, dear reader, act.

Will you lift the wings of a poor child today?

Will you donate to the Children of Incarcerated Parents Fund?

Friends, together we have reached thirty percent of our £500,000 goal.

One hundred percent of your gift goes toward the support of one of these children, a child who has just lost everything.

"At least that line's the truth," I said, and finished my entry:

Give generously. Give now.

I posted the blog and waited. They would give. Incredible that over ten thousand people, a small cult following, discovered and subscribed to my blog. More incredible still that a tenth of them financially supported my global trek. Yes, they believed they were giving to needy children. That occasionally - like today - I fabricated even my location, always gave me pause. But there was no other way. Their charity alone kept me traveling, and by the time I reached ticketing, £400 had been given.

"Well, all right then." I pocketed my phone and grimaced. "We live to lie another day."

CHAPTER 3

What took you so long?"

The beautiful girl slammed her car door and slowly walked toward the curb where I stood. She offered her infectious smirk and we embraced.

"There was trouble on the flight. Trouble with a boy." I pulled free and shook my head. "But you, Dera, you haven't changed a bit."

Again, she smirked.

It was that knowing look that first intrigued me years ago. Her father had moved their family into a neighbouring flat for a six-month stint in London. He was a traveling contractor, and Dera's mum an excessive shopper, which left the two of us with time to make plans in secret. Our most ambitious scheme: One day I would visit America.

"Looks are deceiving." Dera unlatched her car's boot and hoisted my bag inside. She pounded the lid down with a flourish and threw back her hair. "For me, there is no more mom, no more dad. I haven't seen them in a year. Oh . . . I'm really sorry about your mom. She didn't look too bad when we were there. What was it?"

"Cirrhosis."

"What is that?"

"Drink ate her insides."

Dera nodded. "Wow. Well, like I was saying, I live with three roommates on the university campus." She paused. "You've been all over the world, but I bet you've never experienced the kind of craziness I'm about to show you."

From anyone else, an insensitive ignorance of Mum's fate. But Dera's shallowness was more than her greatest weakness, it was an enviable strength.

She never had to feel.

"Not so fast," I said. "I need to collect an item first. Can you take me to this addy?"

I handed her the slip.

"Who do you know in Loring Park?"

"Elis ."

"You two hooked up on the plane?"

"He lifted my bag from the plane."

Again, the smirk. "Sounds promising. Hop in."

I suppose it might have been the evening's flight, or a fret about my bag, but listening to Dera spout on about her exploits, both wild and domestic, held no fascination. Her excitable voice faded into white noise, and I rested my head against the window, forcing smiles and nods but hearing little.

No, I decided, Dera had not changed. But I had. In London, I was her little disciple, following the whims of an older, bellicose American. She had been my first exposure to an untamed world beyond Marbury Street, and what a thrilling picture she'd painted.

Now my eyes had seen that world. They'd seen brilliant northern lights over Iceland, washing the night sky in pinks and greens. They'd seen those same colours alive and vibrant in the fish and corral of Australia's Great Barrier Reef.

But they'd also seen death, from dysentery and dengue fever. Dad's journal had taken me on lonely dirt paths in West Africa and through jungles of Nicaragua, where I'd wished like anything that I could hear my sibs argue again.

Family. You should not so flippantly toss them aside. Like Dera had.

I pinched my forehead between thumb and forefinger.

Like I had.

". . . the partying each night is insane, and my parents would never forgive me if they knew . . ."

But I had no choice. The shame of our family's Greatest Undoing was mine alone to bear. For years, the event's bubbling panic would not ease. I had needed to stay in London, to give up my childhood and become parent. I owed Dad that much. But just as I'd needed to stay, I'd also needed to flee, to keep moving, to keep traveling. I could not face him upon his release.

I balled my fists. Little Thomas, he hadn't needed to die. These hands could have prevented it. My capable hands. My competent hands. Dad and Mum trusted me, and I failed and fled and watched my precious brother bleed. I bowed my head.

There was no forgiveness for that.

". . . Elis ."

The name jarred me aright.

"I'm sorry, it's late and I drifted. What did you say?"

Dera eased onto a windy lane and pointed toward a sign.

Phinn's Bed and Breakfast

Est. 1914

"We're at the address. Let's see this, Elis !"

"No, Dera, let me sort it on my own. Wait here."

Dera accelerated, her tires squealing around each corner. "I did not drive this far only to be denied a peek at your criminal. It's important to know what type you like."

"We aren't a pair. The bloke's a most unsettling thief. I simply need my bag."

"And you and your proper English shall get it."

Dera's Fiat screeched into the roundabout and came to a halt in front of the porch. From somewhere in the night, a siren blared, and several upstairs windows filled with light.

"Oh, well done." I pushed out of the car. "Open the latch."

I retrieved the bag and paused. It was a beautiful B & B. Several stories high, and constructed from white clapboard, it looked a place that belonged in a quaint coastal town. The inn stood unique among neighbouring apartment buildings, with its lawns that stretched out in manicured green, and two fountains that graced the yard.

The dog stopped barking.

"Onward," I said.

I approached the door, and raised my hand to knock.

Dera honked her horn, and I startled, spun, and frowned. She smiled and waved, and when next I turned toward the inn, the door stood open, and Elis stood in it.

His blond hair was disheveled, which was irritatingly pleasant, but otherwise he seemed the same lad I'd met on the plane. Save for the eyes. They were calmer, a cool brown peering out in place of his earlier paranoid gaze. His hands were busy clicking a pen, a pen that looked suspiciously like mine.

Neither of us spoke for several moments.

Another honk.

Elis glanced over my shoulder, and then quickly back to me.

"You took my bag." I slipped out of the shoulder strap and let his thud to the ground.

"When did I take your bag?" He appeared genuinely befuddled.

"On the flight." I eyed my pen. "Have you not noticed the contents are not your own?"

He licked his lips, stepped out, and stroked the returned. "We have the same pack."

"Yes, and I came to recover mine."

Elis stood, and backed into the inn. "Don't worry. I won't take it."

"You already took it!" I pushed my hand through my hair. "Elis Phinn, do you recall nothing of the flight? You accused me of secrets. You spoke of my fath - You drew me. I'm on page seven. You took the wrong bag when you left the plane, which I will not hold against you, as long as you return mine to me . . ." I snatched the pen from his hands and raised it in front of his nose. "With all contents intact." I grabbed a quick breath. "And kindly explain those sketches. If you think I'm leaving before you clear up how you were able to draw certain . . . elements of my past, you're mistaken. Was that just a series of fortunate guesses or . . ."

He stared at the pen. "I'm sorry, but the B & B is full."

The door slammed in my face.

I did not travel this far for a pen!

I pounded with both fists, and again the door swung open. This time, the tired body of a woman filled its frame. Elis 's mum, I was certain of it.

I opened my mouth and waited for words to spill out, angry words. I expected to spew a list of ways that Elis had slowed my progress. The entire Minneapolis trip was already a personal detour from Dad's path.

But angry words did not come. This woman reminded me too much of Mum.

She smiled and stepped out, slowly unzipping the bag and offering a long sigh. "My name is Guinevere Phinn, and my guess is that my son took the wrong bag off the plane and you, being very kind, came to return it."

"Yes, to the botched bag deduction. Perhaps not so much to the kindness."

"Come in."

I grabbed Elis 's bag and stepped into the foyer, a beautiful space lit by a dim chandelier. I was surrounded by framed drawings I recognized immediately to be Elis 's handiwork. I peeked to make certain neither I nor any other member of my family hung on the walls, and quickly relaxed. The majority were landscapes. Mountains and seas, seagulls and ships, harbours and islands. Hanging between were sketches of Orion, its position tilted and stretched in twenty different angles.

Spiral stairs with ornate handrails rose on either side of the foyer. I turned from them in time to see Elis disappear into a room down the hall.

"I don't mean to trouble you further," I said. "I just want what's mine."

"Yes, I imagine you do." Guinevere glanced toward the closed door and winced. "Here is my dilemma. Not knowing that Elis had your backpack, I allowed him to bring it into his room."

I nodded. "Understandable."

Guinevere forced a smile. "Yes, well, not ten minutes ago, Elis woke me to say that he had finished cataloging his new belongings. I was so tired, I thought little of it -"

"His new belongings? My belongings? He's been cataloging my belongings? What does that even mean?"

"Don't worry, everything is fine. It's just -"

"Just . . ."

"Elis will have placed everything in your pack in order. Usually from lightest weight to heaviest. They will be spread out in his room."

I raised my arms and let them flop. "So we enter and gather and all will be spot on -"

"And if we do, there may be a whirlwind. He will not sleep. I will not sleep. My guests will not sleep. He doesn't do well with late-evening changes."

"I don't do well without my diary!"

There was a heavy silence, and Guinevere placed her hand on my shoulder. "An idea. In the morning, we will get your things. I promise. But tonight, please, you and your friend stay in the guest room. Would you do that for me?"

No. The word sounded in my mind. This was a deviation. And while I'd welcomed many deviations, this deviation need not be. My bag and my diary and my computer were twenty feet away. Dera waited outside.

No. I will not do this for you.

"What's wrong with him?" I quietly asked.

She didn't answer.

"But there is something? Something in the mind?"

Again, no reply.

I peeked back toward the door. "Fine, then."

I spun around and exited the inn. Dera's fingers worked an anxious rap on the wheel.

"Well, that took long enough." She craned her neck. "Your bag?"

"It's inside. I can't collect it until tomorrow."

"They're holding your backpack hostage? They can't do that." She grabbed her mobile. "We can call someone."

"No. I'll get it tomorrow. I'm going to stay here tonight. There's room for you too, so I suggest we catch up inside."

"Right." Dera turned the key and the Fiat roared to life. "I have places to be. No, not true. I had places for us to be. You know, I - I was really looking forward to you being here. There are things to talk about. But I get it. Guys and backpacks over friends, right?"

I straightened and spoke to the sky, "Something's odd about him. I mean, he reminds me of . . . I don't have a choice."

"You once told me there's always a choice."

Dera's car jerked forward and she sped away into the night. I listened until I could hear her car no longer, until the sounds of crickets and horns and shouts from surrounding flats took its place.

I slowly climbed the porch steps while wondering, what exactly did Elis know about my life in London; what precisely was wrong with his mind . . .

And what was the heaviest item in my bag?