Lost Luggage

Sammy was a bright red suitcase with four spinning wheels, a shiny silver zipper, and a little tag that read: SAMMY — BELONGS TO: EMMA CHEN, 14 MAPLE STREET.

For three wonderful years, Sammy had traveled everywhere with Emma. To Grandma's house for Thanksgiving. To the beach in summer. To that cabin in the mountains where it snowed so hard they couldn't open the door. Sammy had carried Emma's favorite pajamas, her stuffed elephant named Peanut, and at least forty-seven hair ties that always ended up rattling around in his side pocket.

Sammy loved his job.

But today, something went terribly wrong.

It started at the airport in Chicago. Emma's dad had set Sammy on the conveyor belt, and Emma had waved and said, "See you in Boston, Sammy!" just like she always did.

The belt carried Sammy through a dark tunnel, and he tumbled onto a cart with a dozen other bags. A big duffel bag landed on top of him with a WHUMP.

"Excuse me!" said the duffel bag. "Sorry about that. Name's Frank. Where you headed?"

"Boston," said Sammy proudly. "Emma's waiting for me."

"Boston!" said Frank. "Me too! Well, good luck in there. It gets a little wild."

And oh, was Frank right.

Sammy was loaded onto a truck, then unloaded, then loaded onto another truck, then placed on a different conveyor belt that twisted and turned like a roller coaster. Bags went left. Bags went right. Tags were scanned, lights blinked, and machines beeped.

Then Sammy felt himself tossed — whoosh — down a chute and into the belly of an airplane.

He settled in and smiled. Boston, here I come.

But the airplane didn't go to Boston.

When the cargo door opened and sunlight flooded in, Sammy heard something strange. Music. Loud, happy, trumpet-filled music. And he caught one word on a sign through the open hatch:

MIAMI.

"Miami?!" Sammy gasped. "This isn't Boston! This isn't anywhere NEAR Boston!"

He was pulled out and placed on a carousel — one of those big spinning rings where passengers pick up their bags. Round and round Sammy went. Families grabbed their suitcases. A man in a Hawaiian shirt picked up a golf bag. A woman scooped up a pink backpack.

But nobody picked up Sammy.

Round and round and round.

"Hey," whispered a small green carry-on bag sitting near the wall. "You look lost."

"I AM lost," said Sammy. "I'm supposed to be in Boston. With Emma."

The green bag nodded wisely. "They'll scan your tag eventually. Happens all the time. You just gotta be patient."

Patient. Sammy tried to be patient. He really did. But the carousel stopped spinning, the lights in the terminal dimmed, and a worker finally picked him up and carried him to a room in the back that had a sign on the door:

LOST LUGGAGE.

Inside, Sammy found a mountain of bags. Big ones. Small ones. Bags with stickers from a hundred countries. A purple backpack with a broken strap. A guitar case. Even an enormous cardboard box that said FRAGILE on every side.

"Welcome to the club," said the purple backpack. Her name was Plum. "I've been here for six days."

"SIX DAYS?" Sammy's zipper trembled.

"My tag fell off," Plum said quietly. "Nobody knows where I belong."

Sammy looked down at his own tag. SAMMY — BELONGS TO: EMMA CHEN, 14 MAPLE STREET. It was still there. A little crumpled, but there.

"I'm sorry, Plum," he said softly.

"It's okay," said Plum, but her voice was small.

That night, Sammy couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about Emma. She was probably standing at the Boston carousel right now, watching bag after bag slide down, waiting for a bright red suitcase that never came. He imagined her face — the way her eyebrows scrunched together when she was worried.

I'll find my way back, he promised. I will.

The next morning, a worker scanned Sammy's tag, typed something into a computer, and said, "Chicago to Boston, huh? How'd you end up HERE?" She shook her head, slapped a new sticker on him that said REROUTE — BOSTON, and put him on a cart.

"Goodbye, Plum!" Sammy called. "I hope someone finds you!"

"Goodbye, Sammy. Say hi to Boston for me."

Sammy was loaded onto a new airplane. He felt the rumble of the engines, the lift of the wheels, and his heart soared. This is it. I'm going to Emma.

But when the plane landed and the cargo door opened — it was raining. Hard. And the signs didn't say Boston.

They said ATLANTA.

"Oh, COME ON!" Sammy groaned.

Back on a carousel. Round and round. Nobody picked him up. Again he ended up in a lost luggage room, and this time, the room was smaller and stuffier, and his only company was a very grumpy leather briefcase named Bernard.

"First time being lost?" Bernard grumbled.

"Second time," said Sammy.

"Ha! I've been rerouted SEVEN times. Seven! I was supposed to go to Denver in March. It is now June."

Sammy didn't want to become like Bernard — grumpy and hopeless, sitting in a corner collecting dust. So he did something he'd never done before. When the morning worker came in, Sammy made sure his tag was facing straight up, clear as day, right where the scanner could see it. He puffed himself up as tall and red as he could be.

The worker stopped. Looked at him. Read his tag.

"Oh, this poor little guy. Boston! Let's get you home."

She carried Sammy carefully — not tossed, not thrown, but carried — to a special counter. She made a phone call. She printed a bright orange tag that said PRIORITY and tied it right next to Sammy's name tag.

"There," she said, patting his handle. "No more detours for you."

Sammy rode one more airplane. He held his breath the entire flight. When the engines slowed and the wheels touched down, he listened for any clue. Any sound.

And then he heard it.

A voice over the loudspeaker: "Welcome to Boston Logan International Airport."

"BOSTON!" Sammy shouted. "BOSTON, BOSTON, BOSTON!"

He was placed on the carousel — the Boston carousel — and the belt started to move. Sammy rolled through the rubber curtain and out into the bright, bustling terminal. Families everywhere. People on phones. Kids sitting on top of suitcases.

And there — standing right at the edge of the carousel, wearing her purple rain boots and her favorite yellow coat — was Emma.

She spotted him immediately.

"SAMMY!" she screamed. She grabbed him off the belt, hugged him tight with both arms wrapped around his middle, and spun in a circle. "Dad! DAD! Sammy's here! He made it!"

Her dad jogged over, laughing. "Well, look at that! They found him!"

Emma unzipped Sammy right there on the airport floor. Peanut the stuffed elephant was still inside. The forty-seven hair ties were still rattling in the side pocket. Everything, right where she'd left it.

"I knew you'd come back," Emma whispered, squeezing Peanut in one hand and resting her other hand on Sammy's lid. "I knew it."

Sammy couldn't speak — not so that Emma could hear, anyway. But if he could, he would have said: I knew it too. It just took a little longer than I planned.

Emma zipped him back up, and her dad rolled Sammy toward the parking garage. The four spinning wheels hummed along the smooth airport floor. The automatic doors whooshed open, and cold Boston air rushed in — real Boston air, the kind that smells like rain and ocean and home.

And Sammy rolled on, right where he belonged.

Somewhere in Miami, a worker scanned a purple backpack and said, "Well, well. Let's get YOU home too."

And Plum smiled.