When I awoke, I knew that city had been Prague. I don’t know why Prague. I knew very little about the place. But I thought that whatever I was searching for must be there. And if not, what did it matter? It was a leap outside of logic. And a way forward.

Even as I write this simple confession of my inability to write, the Finn beside me leans forward, gazes upon my scribbles and says,” Are you a writer? Are you writing a story?”

THE BLACK BAG   There’s no way I will get a story written during this flight. Why even try? The stewardess will keep interrupting. Turbulence will make my...