When I got home, I carefully extracted the second yellow bowl from my mother’s box of giveaways. Then, holding my breath, I carried it into my bedroom, and placed it next to its twin on my dresser. I exhaled.
On the surface, the bowls didn’t seem particularly special. They were quite common, so finding multiple yellow bowls shouldn’t make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was the circumstances that gave me the heebie jeebies.
How had I found the first bowl? I mean, was I really to believe that I had fallen into some sort of wormhole and ended up in 1950-whatever? And even if I had, how had I returned home?
I sat on the edge of my bed staring intently at the two bowls, my dogs next to me, my cat on the floor slithering between my legs. I ignored him so he began to look for something else to scratch his head against. He strutted over to the big leather suitcase which lay forgotten on my floor and rubbed his head against the cowhide.
My eyes followed the cat to the suitcase. Then darted back to the bowls. And the lightbulb went on.
The suitcase. Somehow, the suitcase was responsible.
