4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
The Baggage Claim
Jamie didn't ask to spend his morning in airport purgatory, eating chocolate cake and watching delayed flights crawl across departure boards. Paul didn't expect to fly interstate for an emergency only to find his brother at home making breakfast. Yet here they are—two men whose only common ground is the person who isn't there—about to share the longest, quietest car ride of both their lives.
The arrival gate. Paul searches the crowd for Luke's face. There's Jamie, waving. But no Luke.
Luke's at home. Cooking eggs.
The words land wrong. Emergency plane tickets. Cryptic references to crisis. Desperate pleas for support. And Luke couldn't even come to the airport.
Paul's frustration bubbles hot. He climbed out a window. Drove through darkness. Nearly hit a kangaroo. Ignored Claire's frantic calls. Slept in his car. All because Luke said it was urgent.
Jamie looks sour at Luke's name. They navigate the baggage claim in uncomfortable silence—two people who barely know each other, connected only through the person who isn't here. The car park. The parking pay machine. Coins pushed into pockets. Small tensions building.
The silver Honda Civic. The drive ahead stretches long. Paul watches unfamiliar Hobart streets slide past. Nothing makes sense. Luke sounded vulnerable, urgent, desperate. But Jamie seems fine. Normal. Not like someone whose relationship is imploding.
Either Luke dramatically overstated things, or Jamie's an excellent actor, or Paul's missing something fundamental.
When it finally makes sense, Paul suspects he won't like the answer.
