By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 9: A Slight Change of Plans
While I was at breakfast—very early, very light–the hotel slaps came to my room and picked up my bags. I didn’t need to do anything to get them from there to the back of the limo. The only things I had to carry were the real estate leaflets I’d picked up from the concierge. There were lots of glossy pictures of “elegant Wellingtons” and “baroque Bee hives,” each with “intimate facilities for family, grand space for entertainment, and bountiful St. Bevons gardens. Barracks for 5-10 staff.” The prices were not unreasonable, especially considering the current exchange rate.
When the airport slap opened the door of the limo, I had nothing to do except walk through security; the slappies would see that my bags got through. It all happened so smoothly, I didn’t think about the backpack until I got to the boarding area. I guess that’s where you usually remember stuff you forgot. It would be ridiculous to go back to the hotel to turn the thing in—and who cared about it anyway? Besides, I didn’t really know where it was. Probably the hotel slappies had found it in the room and shipped it to the airport along with the other bags. It was silly, but I had that uneasy feeling I got whenever I thought I’d lost something. The item might not be important, but loss of control was always disturbing. It was a tendency I’d been trying to conquer. The only thing to do was just ignore the “problem.” I sat near my gate, reading about St, Bevons properties and ignoring the stupid backpack.
Come to Whistler, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.