---

Jars and Bags and Boxes

by Rachel Gutin

When Dora asks if we can swap carry-on bags, I almost refuse. I know her history with jars and bags and boxes. “What are you hiding this time?”

She flashes me an innocent smile, flaunting her perfect, adorable dimples. “Nothing against the rules. I promise! It’s just… they always stop me for extra screening. You, they’ll let right through.”

My instincts are shrieking at me to say no, but when I lost my job last month, Dora was the only one who stepped in to support me. She planned this trip, and even paid for my ticket, just so I’d have something to look forward to. No one else stepped up like that. Not my former colleagues. Certainly not my family. Dora’s friendship is all I have left. I can’t afford to lose it.

So when she catches my gaze with those puppy-dog eyes, there’s only one answer I can give her.

---

Dora’s got pre-check, but mine’s expired, so we split into our separate security lines. I spend close to an hour snaking back and forth, packed in tight among my fellow travelers. Every time I move, Dora’s bag skips and skitters. Sometimes, I struggle to drag it along behind me, as if she’s packed it full of stones; at other moments the gentlest of tugs nearly sends it flying.

By the time I finally make it to the front of the line, Dora’s long since disappeared. I step through the scanner without setting off any alarms, but Dora’s bag isn’t so lucky. Of course, there’s something on the x-ray. Of course, they’ll need to inspect her bag by hand. I try to convince myself it’s something innocent. A thick book, maybe, or a tube of hand cream. Deep down, I know it isn’t. Under my breath, I curse her name. I curse myself for thinking I could trust her. Aloud, I say, “I request a private screening.”

I don’t have time for a private screening. Our flight starts boarding in fifteen minutes and I need to get to the gate. But I know Dora’s history with jars and bags and boxes, and after an hour snaking through that line, I have a pretty good sense of how many people are standing inside the potential blast radius. I can’t risk causing that much harm.

---

Two agents lead me to a small, white-walled room. It’s empty aside from a bare metal table and a row of orange plastic seats. They pat me down and set Dora’s suitcase on the table. One of them reaches for the zipper.

All my muscles tense. I want to yell at them to stop, but I know it would only arouse their suspicion. So I keep my jaw clamped shut, holding my breath as they throw back the lid, and…

Nothing happens.

No loud explosions. No noxious fumes. Did Dora tell me the truth after all? I stare at the open bag in disbelief.

Then, I catch a glimpse of the bag’s contents: at least a dozen jars and boxes. And I know what Dora keeps in all her jars and boxes.

I can’t afford to stay silent any longer. “Don’t open those!” I shout. “Just seal them up and throw them all away.” Dora’s going to kill me for telling them to do this, but I don’t see any safer option. Not when she’s clearly filled her entire suitcase with artisanal plagues and bespoke disasters. I don’t care how well she’s sealed them. She has no business taking those on a plane.

No business getting me to take them on a plane.

---

Half an hour later, I finally feel like I can breathe again. They’ve stuffed the jars and boxes into a biohazard bag, and they’ve finally let me go.

“Flight 1289 to Bermuda now boarding all passengers at Gate 33.”

My stomach clenches. That’s our plane. And I’m at the far end of the terminal. I grab the handle of the now-empty suitcase. I start to run.

The terminal is packed with people, all of them too loud and moving way too slowly. I dodge a clump of giggling college students and sidestep a man who’s stopped to take a phone call right in the middle of the concourse. The fancy new fountain is putting on a light show, all golds and reds and shimmering pinks, but I don’t have time to stop and enjoy it. Instead, I swallow back an entire string of curses as I’m forced to skirt the milling crowd around it.

Finally—finally!—I find some room to move… only to nearly trip over an open duffel. A tangled heap of clothing has spilled across the floor, and a woman and her pre-teen son are crouched beside it. They’re frantically trying to stuff it all back into the bag, but the duffel has literally burst at the seams.

I’m about to miss my flight, and I almost keep running, but when Dora’s empty bag nearly clips the edge of theirs, all my anger catches up with me, and I suddenly have a wonderful idea.

After Dora’s massive lie, after the way she put everyone in this terminal at risk, she doesn’t deserve to get her suitcase back. It might as well go to a pair of travelers who need it. “Here,” I say to the woman and her son. “This is yours now.”

“Last call for Flight 1289 to Bermuda.”

I don’t care whether they thank me. If they do, I’m not around to hear it. Now unencumbered, I once again start running. I need to make that flight. Dora has my bag and I have nowhere else to go, and—

“Miss?” The voice is a high-pitched, breathless gasp. “You forgot this. In your bag.”

I stumble to a halt, breathing hard, as the boy with the broken duffel approaches me. He’s holding something out, a shifting, shimmering bundle of… are those feathers?

I don’t have time to wonder. If that came from inside Dora’s suitcase, I’m sure it isn’t safe to handle. I immediately snatch it from his fingers.

When he flinches, I try to offer him a gentle smile. “Thank you.” I hope he can tell I mean it.

He nods at me, then flees.

Despite my urgent need to reach the gate, I can’t help but stand there for a moment, watching his retreating back, stunned by his unexpected kindness. Sure, I’d just given him a free suitcase, but that didn’t mean he owed me anything. He doesn’t even know me. And he’d chased after me anyway, determined to return what he thought was mine, to give me back this… whatever it is. I shake it out and hold it up. It looks like a weird kind of cape or shawl, with feathers that gleam in the afternoon light slanting in through the terminal’s long bank of windows.

I don’t have time to gawk at it, though. Not if I want to board that plane. So I toss the strange garment over my shoulders and yet again resume my desperate run.

As I weave my way through the crowded concourse, I marvel at the lightness of the shawl against my neck. I marvel at how light it makes me feel. Like I could run a thousand miles. Like I’ve sprouted a giant pair of wings.

But it isn’t just the garment that makes me feel so light on my feet. It’s the reminder that there are still good people in the world. People like that boy who returned a garment to a stranger.

And never mind that this garment belongs to Dora, not me. So did all those jars and boxes. So do her lies and misdirections.

This time, when I stumble to a halt, it’s because I’ve realized I don’t need to keep running. I don’t need to board that plane. Sure, I’m abandoning my luggage, but it’s not like I need beach clothing in New York in January. By the time summer rolls around again, I’m sure I can find another job. I’m sure I can find new people to spend time with. People who won’t take advantage of me. I’m sure I can get along fine without Dora. All I have to do is start looking for better options.

I’m keeping the cloak, though. After the stunt she tried to pull today, Dora doesn’t deserve to get it back.

---

No Vampires in Pennsylvania

by Gina Palma

It was a dark and stormy night. I stood beneath a solitary lamppost, holding my map over my head. Cornfields rolled to eternity around me, cut through by the four muddy lanes of a desolate crossroads. The countryside was drowned in rain, and I was alone.
It was my fault. It was the radio, and it was the vampires, but first, the fault was mine. Several years ago, on the radio, I had heard a curious piece of trivia: Vampires, the undead monsters from myths and legends, are known to live in Pennsylvania. I had always wanted to find a vampire, so I set off on a quest. There are sixty-seven counties in Pennsylvania, and around two thousand towns. I visited every one—and I found nothing. There were no vampires in Pennsylvania.

“Vot is vrong?” a voice said suddenly.

In the yellow lamplight loomed a gaunt shadow of a man. He wore a black coat with the collar pulled up to his face. His hair was black and wiry, and his skin pale as snow, but his eyes glowed a warm red. He looked at me with concern.

“Are you lost? Vot are you doing outside on such a dark and stormy night?”

“Hunting vampires,” I said.

He seemed surprised. “Vampires? In Pennsylvania?”

I shrugged. “That’s where they live.”

The stranger’s scarlet eyes were bright with worry. He pulled his coat tighter around his skeletal frame. “There are no vampires in Pennsylvania,” he told me, his voice sure and stern. “You look in the vrong place. Vampires live in Transylvania.”

That caught my interest. I looked closer at the stranger. “Transylvania? Where’s that?”

He pulled a red pen from his pocket and took my map. Pressing the paper to his knee, he bent down to write.

“A county in North Carolina,” he explained. “Here, I vill mark it down for you.”