Prequel to finding Me

My buckle on my backpack is stuck in the think metal slats of the luggage rack above seat 7B on the Logan shuttle. Attempting to juggle my cell phone between my left shoulder and cheek while hefting the pack over my seat, I see the woman in 7A nervously watching my balancing routine as if in fear for her head. Corey from my office is relating information on my jury that I had left deliberating while I escape the country. Not really "escape" in any dramatic sense as if chased, but I have been in trial for the last month, and desperately need to mentally disconnect. That is my goal; and the plan is to achieve this disconnect through hiking and consumption of large quantities of Grk wine. The Dalmatian coast is 12 hours in my future, and it will be a miracle if I haven't jettisoned my phone before then. The calls regarding work keep pouring in, defendants that want lighter sentences, victims that are afraid, court clerks that want paper. I am happy to report to Corey that my phone is about to die. I slide it in the top of the pack, and squeeze between 7A's knees and 6A's reclined seat. I press my forehead against the cool glass window of the shuttle and shut my eyes; breathe deep. I am starting a journey. Travel. Exploring. This, this is mine, and no one owns me when I am on the road.