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remember for you,” he said. “Promise.”
    28

    Your Kind of Crowd
    For Clio, getting off the plane at the Rome airport was like being thrown directly into an Olympic relay event. There was a marathon line to the passport control, in which she was moved, shuffled, butted in front of, and pushed. Then there was a scramble for the bags and a run for customs, which all led to the final release into the airport proper, where everything became a total free-for-all.
    At least she had her speedy suitcase.
    Back before, when they had lots of money and were traveling a lot, Clio had purchased an incredibly expensive pink suitcase with a pattern of rose and green circles. She bought it with the very first Dive! check that arrived in her name. It was made of some advanced kind of lightweight plastic and had better wheels on it than a Mercedes. It was just one of those things in life that gave her tremendous satisfaction every time she looked at it. No matter what happened to her, she had a great suitcase. A light, 29

    fast suitcase. She could outrun anyone with this suitcase, no matter how heavily it was packed.
    Running seemed like a very good idea. With every step Clio took in the direction of her father—getting off the plane, getting her passport stamped, getting her bag—she felt her heartbeat become heavier and faster.
    And then, finally, there he was in the throng of people just outside the arrival doors. Her father was always easy to spot. He was the blond one that some woman was slyly eyeing. It was always a little weird to know that you had a handsome dad. His hair was sandy, always a little too long. He was (it pained her to think it) fairly built. He looked perpetually thirty, even though he had long passed that age.
    Today he was easier to spot than normal. He wore somewhat tight, ragged jeans cut off bizarrely at the meridian of the kneecap, a deep blue dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, black Converse sneakers, and, most disturbingly, a white fisherman’s cap, one size too snug.
    “Oh dear God,” Clio said to herself, stopping in her tracks.
    She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. A boat. A tiny fisherman’s cap. No. No, she had to turn around.
    It was the crowd that forced her on. Only fifty paces and a glass wall separated them now. The suitcase glided along the floor with the grace and speed of an Olympic skater.
    Come on! it seemed to be saying. Let’s just keep going. Hop on me and I’ll get you out of here.
    I can’t, Clio’s mind replied.
    Why not?
    Because there’s nowhere else to go.
    30

    The world’s a big place, Clio. We’re in an Italian airport. We could pull out your credit card, get on another plane, go anywhere.
    My credit limit is way too low.
    You know things are pretty bad when your mind is having crisis talks with your suitcase. Clio soldiered on, and with every step, her father’s grin grew wider. He had a huge mouth too. His smile was practically as big as her foot.
    “Please,” Clio said, maneuvering the pink suitcase through the crowd, “please let him be kind of normal.”
    “Hey, kiddo!” he yelled. “Ciao! Italy, huh?”
    “Yeah,” Clio said, bracing herself for the huge embrace that enveloped her. “It’s Italy.”
    “Our flight to Naples is in an hour and a half, so there’s time to grab a bite. Give me that, kiddo.”
    He reached for the suitcase.
    “I’ve got it,” she said.
    “You must be exhausted. Let me have it.”
    “I’m fine.” She tightened her hold.
    Something in her refused to give over control of the suitcase. It was hers. Her suitcase, her stuff, her life. She would have insisted even if her hand was broken. Even if she was dead . Her zombie would pull the suitcase before she would let her dad have it.
    “Come on,” he said. “Let me help you with that, kiddo. You relax.”
    Clio had already skittered ahead a few feet, taking the pink suitcase with her. Victory.
    “We all just flew down from London,” her dad said breezily as he