Chapter 1: Home Is Where The Airport Isn't

I've always hated the airport.

During the day, it's chaotic and crammed with cranky tourists, a labyrinth of long lines and overpriced fast-food joints.

Nighttime is no better. Navigating a garish, artificially lit cave with only security guards and the occasional straggling jet-lagger for company? It isn't exactly a fun experience. There's something eerie about it all, and you just can't get out of there fast enough.

So as I walked through the port doors and inhaled my first breath of smog-choked Newell City air, all I felt was relief (although on second thought, I probably should not have tried to inhale that toxic gas).

Admittedly, I was a mess. My hair was oily and in desperate need of a deep-conditioning, and the bags under my eyes could've passed for giant bruises. If anybody ever asked, I'd probably say that they should see the other guy. I didn't get to say it, though. Not that they would have believed me, those jaundiced, cynical critics.

No, there wasn't any private butler waiting for me, waving a big-ass crinkled piece of paper with my name on it. Not even any friends or family. It didn't matter. I tended to be a bit of a private person, anyways, and I liked my own company just fine. Although my sneaker-clad feet felt heavy on the dirty pavement, and my oversized backpack was nothing but dead weight on my poor shoulders, I couldn't help but feel a sort of tired happiness bubbling up within me. You know - the kind you get after uploading that IB Literature assignment at three in the morning.

I guess my situation wasn't all too different. It was past midnight, and besides a handful of shady-looking figures hastening down the sidewalk, there wasn't much going on. The airport was situated on the outskirts of Newell, so it was only to be expected. I managed to flag down a taxi - the cramped interior smelled faintly of cigarettes, but it was comfortable enough - and spent the ride in silence, my earphones in and iPod on full blast.

The taxi driver's head bobbed steadily the whole time, a sure indicator that he had the radio tuned to Top 40. I wondered if he would get the reference if I asked him where the ducks went during the winter, but I didn't bother to try. Residents of Newell tended not to be the most avid readers.

The buildings raced past, coalescing into a dark blur streaked with the bright, neon lights of skeevy motel signs. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the prettiest city, but at the end of the day, it was home. It had its own charm. Charm that most people probably wouldn't, for the life of them, be able to see. Occasionally... neither could I.

My apartment wasn't too far from the airport. I loved traveling; always had, always would. My journey across the highways culminated in me dumping my bags at the door and fumbling for my keys - which, apparently, were misplaced. Crap.

I was tiredly contemplating kicking down the door to my beloved apartment, firefighter-style, when I discovered my keys in my jeans pocket, along with a wad of lintballs and a couple euro coins.

Right. I had no idea how they'd gotten there, but at the moment I could not have cared less.

The keys were shoved clumsily into the keyhole, the door swung open, and I tumbled into my dark apartment, my entrance complemented by the roar of unorganized city din.