Seat 34F

Boarding pass fell from a Carver book.

Portland. One-way. Twenty-two.

I picked the window so I wouldn't

have to talk. Three days and nobody knew.

Rental car on an empty highway.

Cigarette lighter jammed—I pushed it in,

pulled it out, pushed it in.

Something to do with my hands.

I thought that was freedom.

Now I think it was the bill

I let someone else pick up.

The pass is creased down the middle.

I put it back inside the book

where it can keep being twenty-two

and not owe anyone.