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Floyd

“All our flights but one have been cancelled,” apologizes the pretty Asian girl behind the desk.

“Let me guess,” says Floyd woodenly. “You’ve got one seat left on it. Coach.”

“Why, yes, sir! Compliments of the airline. We’ll have to re-route your luggage through Alexandretta to meet you in Carthage–is that acceptable?”

Floyd knows neither of them will make it there. Cancellations on the layover, and he’ll be redirected to another in a series of increasingly unreal cities. Where next–Constantinople? Metropolis? Babylon? Ur?

“Sir?” she’s asking.

“Wherever,” he says. One hundred twelve and counting, and never a flight home.

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