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One

“Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

– J.K. Rowling

Alex couldn’t understand the public address system’s garbled instructions. The distorted voice, amidst the din of several hundred passengers in the baggage claim area of London’s largest airport, sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Tucking her shoulder-length waves behind her ears, she slowed her pace, but the announcement didn’t repeat. She held her breath, her eyes darting from passenger to passenger, searching for a reaction.

Panic? Raised voices? Tears?

Nope.

She shrugged and tossed her long bangs out of her eyes, continuing on her way. Slow walkers, and abandoned suitcases stacked high on carts like a haphazard Hadrian’s Wall, threatened to impede her progress, but she dodged around the obstacles like a Super Bowl-winning running back. Her feet barely touched the floor.

A beloved line from poet Friedrich Schiller popped into her head—’In thy breast are the stars of thy fate.’ Inspirational quotations rocked. Alex rattled them off like Drake reeling off rhymes, her Pinterest collection tailor-made for moments like this one. Sitting back waiting for fate to come calling? Not her style. Destiny may sprinkle clues along your path, but it’s up to you to act on them.

Her latest leap of faith—flying here to London, a city she loved from afar but had never visited.

‘Passengers arriving on Jet America flight #429 from Miami, please report to the courtesy desk in baggage reclaim beside carousel twelve’

The announcement echoed through the hall. Alex’s ears pricked up. Like a sprite on a sugar rush, she veered off-course from Heathrow’s luggage carousels and bolted towards the courtesy desk, her knees buckling as her backpack—almost double her size—thumped against her back with each stride. A deke past a doddling family here, a swerve around a barrier rope there, and the jostling mob of passengers fell in line behind her. She draped her small frame over the counter, shifting her bottom-heavy Doctor Who laptop bag across her body onto her hip. She greeted the airport employee with a grin her freckles couldn’t control.

“Hello! My name is Alexandra Sinclair. I was on the Miami flight.”

A tall, middle-aged woman with straw-coloured hair twisted into a harsh bun squinted over the rims of her glasses. She referred to a computer printout in her hands.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. May I confirm that your air travel began yesterday on Thursday, May 21 at Tallahassee Regional Airport in Florida? And you made a flight connection at Miami International Airport for London Heathrow?” Her plummy accent sounded like Lady Mary from Downton Abbey.

“Yes, that’s right.” Alex couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s thick dark roots.

“I’m sorry to inform you, but there was a problem at Miami Airport. The checked luggage from the Tallahassee aircraft was transferred to the wrong trans-Atlantic flight. Your two checked cases haven’t arrived in London, Miss Sinclair.”

Alex’s smile slipped from her heart-shaped face. No, no, no.

The tall metal walls of the terminal leaned in, squeezing all the air out of the room. The beat of Alex’s heart accelerated, as if it wanted to break free of her chest and make a run for it. Perspiration glistened on her palms, and each swallow pulled her throat into a tighter knot. She yanked at the overstretched neckline of her faded Captain America t-shirt, causing its damp threads to peel away from her slumped shoulders, exposing her small comedy and tragedy mask tattoo.

“What? I don’t understand. Can you check again, please? This must be a mistake. Please…check again.” Nauseating waves bubbled in her stomach, and a tinge of sourness assaulted her tongue. “How can my stuff be missing? Where… where is it?”

The woman with the inky roots curled her lip. Now she’d done it. Pissed off the clerk. The employee spoke again, but her words floated and vanished in the air like soapy bubbles blown into the wind. Alex didn’t catch any of them, her mind tethered to the worst-case scenario.

Don’t faint. DON’T FAINT. Not now!

Tears pooled in her eyes. “What am I supposed…to do?”

“Fill out this form with your address and phone number in the UK, and give it back to me. NEXT.”

Alex grabbed the form as an arm shoved her backpack out of the way. The navy blue sleeve belonged to a squawking New York accent, having a go at Ms. Dark Roots. Alex’s load teetered, jerking her sideways, her leg kicking into the air. A swarm of rampaging travellers elbowed her back onto both feet and devoured the small pocket she had just occupied against the desk. She rebounded through the herd, clutching the crumpled paper like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

She dumped her backpack on the floor, giving her rubbery legs a reprieve. A nearby wall offered welcome support. Her damp back bounced against its surface as she slid down to the floor, her eyes overcome with stingy tears. She whispered a mantra she relied upon to combat her panic attacks: “You can do this. You can do this.”

Her trembling hands juggled her cell phone. Hugging her knees to her chest, she pressed a saved number. A familiar voice with a British accent drifted through the speaker.

“Alex, honey! You’ve arrived. You’re finally on our side of the pond.” It was her dad, Michael.

His daughter failed to respond, shifting his jubilant tone to worry, her gasped half-breaths a concern. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

“Dad, my luggage … they lost it. Something happened in Miami. I…had two checked bags…all my clothes, books… gone…” Her voice trailed off, replaced by a wheezing rattle.

“Alex, listen. Everything’s going to be okay. Breathe with me; take slow…breaths. You’re going to be all right.”