2. ConvergeLuggage circulates on the carousel. As I watch for my bag, I try to remember the songs I heard during the disturbance. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Oliver.
“This is for you,” he says, and he hands me a crumpled piece of paper.
“What?” I fumble to unfold the paper.
“No. Not here. Shhhh…,” he whispers. “It’s from you. You said you’d know. Or you would know.”
What’s with everyone? I only want to get to the hotel, close the door and leave this day outside.
He attempts to act nonchalant by checking his phone and pretending to watch the carousel while furtively glancing at me. After a moment, he nods to me then walks away. I unfold the paper. On it are hand-drawn sketches of machine parts. Long strings of numbers. Formulas.
I crumple the paper and look for a trashcan. A
