I'm traveling in a foreign country, a dry orange-toned place. A cab drops me off in front of a hotel, but takes off again with my luggage. I quickly read his license plate and try to commit it to memory, repeating it over and again in my head. I see the cab driver looking back at me, as if running away.

But he doesn't go far, just around a corner, and then he comes back on the other side of the street and drops off my stuff. The hotel manager takes me over there to retrieve my belongings. But there is a pile, and it's isn't all mine. See, that chainsaw isn't mine, and all this other stuff I don't recognize. Just the suitcases are mine.