Sancha Grant

Hope

The bag itself screamed rich, leather; soft as butter dyed a deep amber. It was like a holdall but smaller, two handles. Basically what wealthy people took to the gym only it wasn't monogrammed and didn't smell like crappy men's eau de toilette. It smelt new, brand new, and it was at least half full and that's why I had no problem sliding it over from under the seat in front of me and casually picking it up as I walked off the bus. Well that and I also thought whoever left it didn't seem to have much use for the contents anymore, otherwise why leave it? Really, they were just asking for trouble. It somehow did not occur to me the damn thing could’ve been a bomb or something until I was about to open it. Literally the second my hand touched the gold zip. Right then was the moment my brain clicked. What were you supposed to do with unattended luggage on a crowded bus? Report it to the police or pick it up? Dumb and Dumber both shouldve all been played by me right then. So I hesitated, for a minute just holding the cool metal between my fingertips. Was it too late to not open the bag? Did I hear any ticking noises from inside? No and no. I let go. I put the bag down carefully on the concrete of the underground parking lot I was currently in. Home sweet home. The only place sort of warm enough and dry enough to set up for the night, I'd found a little spot away from the cameras and close enough to the stairs to make a quick getaway if anyone started poking around my humble abode and set up camp. Looking at the fancy bag next to the old ratty sleeping bag and musty pillow I called a bed I figured a bomb might actually be an improvement.