Page 3 of Commit

I pull up on the bag while I try to straighten, but my body is immediately dragged back down.

Is the bag stuck?

I walk a few steps with the belt as it moves forward, trying to get a better look, but my head won’t budge. My eyes drop to the carousel. The stupid hoodie string is caught on the conveyor belt. This isn’t a smooth top conveyor belt. Nope. It’s one of the scale-type ones with individual panels, and currently, my hoodie string is stuck between two panels, forcing me to walk backward with the moving machine.

“Excuse me,” I say as my butt bumps into the few bodies standing right next to the carousel. “Pardon me.”

If only my butt could beep like a commercial truck in reverse, then everyone would know I was coming and would get out of the way.

I’m hunched over, tripping on feet as people try to step back, all while I’m being tugged slowly around the half-moon.

Do you know how many stars have to align for something like this to happen?

You need this exact type of conveyor belt—the one with the scales.

You need to have cinched your hoodie so tight that the strings are long and dangling.

And you need to bend wayyyy down like an idiot when picking up your luggage.

Lucky for me, everything came together.

I’m so blessed.

I round the corner with my suitcase, and that’s when I really start to panic. I glance over my shoulder—as much as I can, considering my head is on a short leash. There’s only about fifteen feet left before the conveyor belt disappears under the flaps into the unknown. If I don’t get my hoodie unstuck soon, I’ll be forced to lie on the conveyor belt and let it sweep me away.

I’m sure there are worse things in life than riding a baggage carousel through the airport, but I can’t think of any right now.

I’m up against it—not literally, although I will be in a few feet if I don’t get the string out.

I tug with both hands.

Nothing.

I debate taking my sweatshirt off, but there’s no way I’ll be able to get it over my head with how tightly it’s cinched.

People around me start to notice. Some yell, “Pull!” Others yell for airport security to stop the machine. A nearby child asks his mom why I get to play on the carousel and he doesn’t.

I’m sure I’ll be viral before making it around one complete time.

This is my last chance before I have to dive onto my stomach and disappear. At this point, maybe I want to disappear.

I yank as hard as I can, and suddenly, there’s another hand pulling too. The force of our combined efforts snaps the string in half, sending me flying backward. Two firm hands steady me.

Everyone around me claps.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I slowly turn around, already knowing who the firm hands belong to.

“Remi? Is that you?”

I shrink with embarrassment. “Oh, hey, Matt.” Someone who almost died in a baggage-claim accident shouldn’t sound this chipper. “I didn’t know you were here.” I pick up what’s left of the hoodie string and wave it in front of his face.

His brows drop. “Why do you look like the Unabomber?”

I shake my head. “You can’t say Unabomber in an airport.”

“But you can dress like one?”

---