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long enough for Franklin to know it’s a cue.
    “In China.” We say it together.
    “Sensational.” Susannah says. She flips her notebook closed with a snap. “Four weeks until airtime. ‘It’s In The Bag.’ Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
     
     
    “Black. With wheels. From Baltimore. It had a name tag.” I should not have come to the airport. I should not be leaning on Logan Airport’s lost luggage counter, at what should be dinnertime, discussing my missing possessions with an overpierced and overworked clerk. The name tag on his wilting blue polyester shirt says Todd. And I predict Todd is just pretending to talk on the phone and check his computer records until I agree to go away. And I do want to go away. But I also want my stuff. And I can’t believe it’s not here somewhere.
    “Excuse me?” I say, entreating. I point to the expanse of unclaimed luggage covering the floor. “Could I just look through the misdirected bags you’re holding?”
    Todd is talking through a headphone, and covers the tiny mouthpiece with one hand. “I can’t hear you,” he says, obsessively clicking a ballpoint open and closed. And goes back to his “conversation.”
    I scan the wretched moonscape of black wheelie bags, stranded and orphaned, a forlorn dumping ground surrounded by a sagging strip of webbing that’s stretched between two stanchions. I shrug at Todd, then head into the forest of black canvas and plastic, picking my way through hundreds of astonishingly identical suitcases. Some with colorful bows, some with leather name tags. Some bigger, some smaller. So far, everyone’s bag but mine.
    “Passengers arriving on Flight…” A barely decipherable announcement crackles over the public address system. I squint my ears to understand. But all I get is “…now at Claim Station C.”
    Suddenly, a wave of travelers troops wearily past me toward the area ceiling signs designate Claim Station C. Carry-on bags slung over their shoulders, cell phones in their hands, kids in tow. They stand in clumps, staring dully at the still-empty black conveyor belt each one is hoping will hold their belongings. A few more passengers straggle in, also focused on the conveyor belt. With a flashing of red warning lights, the blare of the “luggage arriving” klaxon echoes through the baggage claim area. The segmented belt lurches mechanically into motion. The black plastic strips over the opening flap and flutter as the parade of suitcases begins.
    I’m hypnotized, staring in amazement as the once-placid passengers power into fast forward, swarming the conveyor, grabbing bags, yanking them, tossing them onto carts and wheeling them away. Kids ignored, the travelers elbow and shoulder their way closer to the belt, manners and turn-taking forgotten. They’re all talking at once, jockeying for position, and it’s every man for himself. No person and no bag is safe.
    And suddenly, it’s clear what’s happened to my suitcase. It’s not lost. It’s stolen.
    Sidestepping and tiptoeing my way back through the maze of luggage leftovers, I stomp back to Todd, my realization swelling my tired brain into anger. Todd’s still staring only at his computer screen, playing with his ridiculous pen. I slap both palms on his desk and lean toward him, almost hissing.
    “You guys don’t even compare claim checks,” I say. I know it’s not Todd’s fault, exactly, but he’s the only one here. And I’m tired and cranky and need a shower and the stupid airline has lost my suitcase. Again. And I’m sick of being nice about it. “It’s outrageous. And it’s probably why you guys have such a disastrous record of lost luggage. It’s not the curbside check-in agents getting the tags wrong. It’s not the weather. It’s just open season around here. People could just come in and—I mean…”
    I wave a disdainful hand at the bag-hungry crowd, shaking my head. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. I’m making myself even