Mistaken Baggage

The airport was a zoo with travelers darting around like caffeinated squirrels. Emma, a frazzled graphic designer with a penchant for overpacking, yanked her black suitcase off the baggage claim belt.

It looked exactly like hers—same scuffs, same slightly wobbly wheel. Emma didn’t think twice while hauling it to friend Sarah’s car.

At Sarah’s apartment, Emma unzipped the suitcase to grab her toothbrush. “Hey, can I borrow yours? I left mine at the hotel.”

Sprawled on the couch with a glass of wine, Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Um, no. Gross. Just grab it from your bag.”

Emma rummaged through the suitcase, then froze. “What the hell?”

She pulled out a plastic bag of milk—actual bagged milk, like some Canadian contraband. “This isn’t mine. Whose bag is this?”

Sarah sat up, intrigued. “No way. You grabbed the wrong suitcase?”

Emma dug deeper, her panic rising. “There’s no toothbrush. No laptop. No skin cream. Just… milk. And… is this a knife?”

She held up a gleaming blade with a suspiciously rusty stain.

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Is that blood?”

“Okay, no, it’s probably… ketchup?” Emma said unconvincingly.

She checked the luggage tag. “It says ‘Mary P.’ No phone number. Oh god, Mary has my bag. My laptop’s in there. My life is in there!”

Sarah peered over her shoulder. “Okay, calm down. Maybe Mary’s just a quirky grandma who likes bagged milk and… sharp objects.”

Emma kept digging, pulling out a Marc Jacobs scarf. “This is nice. Is Mary rich or psychotic?”

Emma then pulled a pistol from the bag. “What the…?”

“Put it back,” Sarah demanded.

Still not listening, Emma pulled out a black velvet pouch that felt oddly cold. “What’s this?”

Sarah leaned in. “Don’t open it. It’s probably cursed.”

Emma, never one to listen, unzipped it. A strange, icy void seemed to suck the warmth from the room. “It’s like a black hole in here. Wait—something bit me!”

She yanked her hand back, shaking it.

Sarah grabbed the pouch and zipped it shut. “Nope. We’re done. Put it all back before Mary turns out to be a mafia don.”

Emma’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then paled. “It’s not mine. This phone has 40 missed calls from… El Chapo?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped. “El Chapo? Okay, we’re not messing with Mary. Pack it up. We’re driving to the airport, and you’re yeeting this bag through the lost-and-found window.”

Emma nodded, shoving everything back in, though the milk bag sloshed ominously. “It won’t fit right. Screw it, I’ll toss it in a dumpster. Mary’s probably too busy running a drug cartel to notice.”

Sarah grabbed her keys. “Yeah, and if she has your bag, she knows your name and address. But let’s not think about that now. She won’t notice. Right?”

“Right,” Emma said, voice shaky. “She won’t notice.”

Meanwhile, in a sleek penthouse across town, Mary Poppins—the Mary Poppins, nanny by day, secret operative by night—opened Emma’s suitcase. Her eyes narrowed as she sifted through graphic novels and half-eaten granola bars. “Where the hell is my gun?”

She pulled out a crumpled Post-it with Emma’s name and address. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. “Well, Emma, it seems we have a problem.”

Mary snapped the suitcase shut, her umbrella tapping the floor like a metronome of doom. “Time for a little visit. Practically perfect people don’t lose their luggage… or their custom Beretta.”