Cody Jackson set his airline ticket next to his suitcase on the bed. Then he looked at his computer desk and picked up a Paris guidebook, letting the next book, called Death of a Salesman, fall behind it. He heard thunder and looked outside to see a flash of lightning. Jackson-he liked to go by his last name-tossed the guidebook on top of the world atlas on his bed.
He was excited about the school trip to Paris, France.
"Jackson," his mother Barbara called. She walked into his room carrying a couple pairs of his pants, and carefully placed them inside of his suitcase. "Lex and George's dad just called. He's picking you up at ten tomorrow. And the bus leaves the high school for the airport around five."
His dad Ken leaned in the doorway. "How's my suitcase working out for you?"
Jackson looked over towards the suitcase just in time to see his mom reach out to tear off an airline baggage I.D. ticket that was attached from a previous flight. He rushed towards the ticket to keep her from taking it off. "Whoa! Whoa! Mom, you got to leave that on. It's like…the tag made the last flight without crashing or anything, right? So, it should stay on, or with, the bag for good luck."
"Where would you get a nutball idea like that?" Barbara asked as she ripped the I.D. ticket off the bag handle.
She looked at her husband, who shrugged. "I'm still here."
Jackson laughed, but quickly stopped when his mother glared at him.
"Seventeen, and on the loose," Ken started. "Ten days in Paris in the springtime. Live it up, Jackson. Got your whole life ahead of you."
The storm had ceased, leaving the room quiet.
A sudden breeze passes through the room. The propellers on the airplane model hanging above Jackson's desk begin to spin. A poster on his wall flutters. Continuing its path towards the bed, it rustles the sheets of a book, then his hair.
Even in his sleep, Jackson shivers from the passing cold. His eyes open suddenly. He considers where the breeze may be coming from for a beat and looks towards the window, which was closed. Then he turned towards the table fan on his desk, which is turned off.
Jackson, perplexed, turned towards his digital clock. It was one o'clock. However, the numbers flickered and appeared to read what looked like the number one-eighty. Jackson, tired, just turned over and went back to sleep.