Returning to Ohio had been a pleasant rest, of a sort. Certainly it had reminded him why he left in the first place, and that chronic boredom was the greatest motivator a traveller could ever know. It was time to move again.
He sat in a squalid railway station cafe, nursing a cup of lumpy coffee. His new hat felt strange – he’d never chosen a trilby before. Nor had he worn a duffle coat. The rest of his new wardrobe was stuffed into his faithful, sticker-riddled suitcase. Everything he had owned in Ohio was now abandoned to a charity donations box. The change of look felt good. It always did – a nervous, unburdened giddiness.
A neighbour walked by, glanced over him and did not recognise him. Michael grinned the new grin he had designed before a mirror. He returned to flicking through his altas. Where next? He could become Miguel in Brazil, wander eastern europe as Mihail or even Mikaere in the mountains of New Zealand.
His train screeched to its platform. He bounded towards it. His next journey had begun.