Chapter One: The Red-Eye Flight

Out of all the words that could be used to describe Clara Oswald, punctual was not one of them.

Granted, it was never of her own accord. In fact, she considered herself to be a keen strategist and thus orchestrated her days to a tee; she had a planner with matching pens and everything. Confirm meeting at one. Pack for New York at eight. Order a taxi at nine.

Except she wasn't going anywhere, at least not tonight. And especially not with the airport station attendant maintaining the most fraudulent smile the young woman had ever seen.

"Cancelled?!" Clara balked in her face, hands gripping the information desk in a caffeinated frenzy, as if doing so would somehow retract the attendant's previous statement. "What do you mean by cancelled?"

Exasperation was clear as day on the receiving end of Clara's shock, the clerk arranging her face into a polite, tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "According to my screen here, Miss Oswald, Flight 1112 to New York has been cancelled due to a delay in aircraft maintenance. I apologize for the inconvenience, but please understand that we have no direct control over the situation."

Clara was acutely aware of that. But it still didn't prevent her from tossing the blame onto the most immediate person, and it just so happened to be the messenger whose words were fully capable of obliterating her to pieces. She had a plan, a well-thought out, reasonably attainable plan, and she would not, under any circumstances, have it be disabled due to aircraft maintenance. What did that even mean?

She was starting to feel a sweltering oncome of emotions: denial, perplexity, a tinge of lightheadedness. "W-Well, is there any way I can get booked for the next immediate flight? You see, I'm in a bit of a hurry—"

"I'm afraid a seat on our next direct flight isn't available until Friday morning," the clerk informed her, punching a few numbers into her keypad at an excruciating slowness. "If you're willing, we can book you on a red-eye to Omaha tonight, and connect you to a Wednesday evening flight to Newark."

"Omaha?"

"In Nebraska," the woman replied, unfazed. Perhaps it was Clara's accent, or the fact that her passport was red instead of blue, but there was no trouble discerning her as a tourist among the sea of haggard passengers wandering aimlessly about San Francisco International Airport, where the clock had just struck eleven o'clock at night. A myriad of planes blinked sleepily beyond the fiberglass of the terminal, lazily pulling into their gates to whisk travelers away into the dead of night. Out of all the people in this airport, why did she have to be placed in the unlucky lot? Was there some sort of universal lottery that decided this?

"No, no, that wouldn't work out," Clara muttered to herself more than anyone else, fidgeting with the silver band that was tightly secured around her middle finger. All things considered, her mother's ring was her only source of security in this moment. "Are there any other possible options? If someone fails to show up to one of the other flights, could I take their seat?"

"All of our current flights headed there are already overbooked, so even if I did add you to the waiting list, a chance at leaving here tonight would be little to none," the clerk said with pursed lips. Her expression resembled that of Clara's primary school teacher—annoyed, weary, and utterly fed up with her persistence. But Clara couldn't help herself. These past few weeks had been dedicated to the fabrication and perfection of this trip, and to see it all crumble before her eyes was enough to urge her to tears.

"Look," she said, drawing in a sharp breath. "I write for a living. I publish my own anecdotes online and pray to God that they take me somewhere, and once, just this once, I've caught the attention of someone who might actually take me seriously. That person is on the other side of this country, and they've agreed to meet with me Wednesday afternoon." Clara was on the verge of kneeling if meant her departure from San Francisco tonight, that's how desperately she needed this to work out. "Is there any way I can make it there on time?"

Silence emitted from the airport attendant like oxygen might escape a house plant.

"Please," Clara begged, resting her forehead on the cool counter top, as if it would soothe her frazzled mind from the nightmare that was this flight, or lack thereof. "I don't care how I get there, I just need to."

The clerk's face was totally devoid of sympathy, for she had likely heard a replica of this exact story coming from the mouths of several other abandoned passengers, hence contributing to the signs of early aging on her face. Clara wanted to pity her, but was too busy pitying herself to even realize that another traveler had drawn up his bags behind her, patiently waiting for her to extinguish the melodrama she had created and step aside.

"It's either the Thursday flight, Omaha, or you get a rental and drive to New York yourself. Those are your only options," the attendant said with a note of finality in her voice, dismissing her without another word.

That's it, Clara thought to herself, feeling the dread overcome every inch of her body. I'm done for.

Blinking back the few tears that were surely a precursor for the oncoming sob, Clara clutched her travel pillow and suitcase, and removed herself from the counter like a general in defeat. Turning around, she finally noticed the man standing there, and stopped short. He was truly a sight to behold, but for the most peculiar of reasons.

For one, there was a red passport clutched between his teeth, as his hands were frantically trying to reattach a pair of suspenders to his trousers, a disheveled green jacket hanging loosely around his lanky frame. His hair, brown like hers, was fluffed out in all directions, as if it couldn't decide on one to gravitate towards. And was that... a bow-tie hanging around his neck? Clara had never seen such a man attempt to dress so formally for a red-eye flight.

His eyes latched onto hers for a millisecond before he spoke, his voice muffled behind the passport in his mouth. "Rough day?"

The question was thoughtful, sympathetic. And yet Clara couldn't help but imagine what she must have looked like to him right now. Five foot one and crying, she never stood a chance.

"I could ask the same of you," was all she said, her voice wobbly. The stranger looked down at himself and grimaced.

"TSA," he explained, his left suspender snapping from the waistband of his slacks, nearly putting his eye out. Clara jolted. "Scary lot, they are. I was standing there for twenty minutes while they inspected me like I was Dave Franco."

"Why Dave Franco?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "Have you not seen that movie?"

"Excuse me," the airport attendant interjected the conversation with a punctuated sigh. "Did you have a concern, sir? I'm leaving in five."

The stranger glanced over to the woman behind the counter, as if he now realized what he was here for. "Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, spitting out his passport and catching it with one hand. He smiled at Clara before gathering his belongings strewn around him: a backpack, a computer bag, and a hat box. "It was nice talking to you," he said, before drawing himself nearer to the counter. Her cue to leave.

Dragging along her suitcase, she sat down in the row of empty seats adjacent to her assigned gate; the area had been quickly vacated after the attendant's announcement that the flight had been cancelled just minutes ago. Slumping in defeat of her botched plans, she pulled her dark red beanie over her eyes and willed this all to go away, this horrifying situation in which there was no way out. She'd miss the interview if she took one of the later flights, and there was no way in hell she was driving herself across a country she had only stepped foot on a few days ago. Every option was a poor one, and she couldn't even fathom the consequence of each.

Calm down, Clara, she told herself, allowing her logic to take over. You've got this all under control.

Except she didn't. She didn't have any control whatsoever. And it made her head spin just thinking about it.

She needed sustenance. She needed it to prevent herself from unleashing the sob that was slowly and treacherously building itself within her chest, to get her mind back on track, to plan the hell out of these next forty-eight hours in which she would need to somehow transport herself across the United States of America. She could do this; she was Clara Oswald. Master planner. Control freak. Major in organizational skills.

It wasn't impossible. Nothing was.

Or so she tried to convince herself.

Grabbing her suitcase with a newfound fervor found only in the remnants of the coffee she had downed just two hours before, Clara was determined to make things work. She'd just have to be creative. Her mother told her that she could do anything she set her mind to; now she just had to believe in that statement. So the young woman wheeled herself down the airport terminal as quickly as her legs could carry her, trying to locate the nearest café, as well as a silver lining to this entire situation.

It was nearing eleven-thirty, and Clara hadn't the faintest idea of how to approach this.

She was seated at the airport's only 24-Hour coffee shop, a quaint little place called Espresso Express, situated on the same wing as her abandoned flight gate. Her laptop was open before her, the search engine drawn up and ready to go, a chocolate soufflé (purchased purely out of stress) already half-eaten to her left. What on earth was she supposed to Google? Hitchhiking for beginners. Non-stop train rides to NYC. How to escape San Francisco.

An article on the Alcatraz Island prisoners appeared upon that last search, and it was then when Clara truly began to lose hope. Spooning a generous amount of soufflé into her mouth, she downed it with the rest of her water, and lay her head on the table in exhaustion. Perhaps if she just phoned Wayfarer Industries and informed them of her dilemma, they'd allow her to reschedule her interview to this weekend. Perhaps the solution to all of this was genuinely as simple as that.

And ruin their first impression of you? A small yet wicked voice worked its way into her head, manipulating her thoughts. You're lucky you even landed an interview with them at all. Wednesday is your one and only chance before they label you tardy and irresponsible for good.

Clara couldn't risk tarnishing whatever standard she currently upheld with her and the potential patron of her website, so she pushed the thought to the back of her mind, praying for some sort of miracle to reveal itself to her this very moment.

The door to the café jingled open, Clara lifting her head from its place on the table. It was the man she saw at the information help desk. He had fixed his hair since the last time she'd seen him; it was now styled into a quiff that seemed to defy all laws of physics, and his clothes were in order. Looking around the place, he spotted Clara in the corner, and flashed her a quick smile before heading over to the register to order. So he remembered her.

Sighing, Clara sat fully upright, and pulled her laptop closer to her. Her father had bought it as a birthday present for her when she turned twenty, and ever since then the two had become an inseparable pair. The laptop, with its beautiful red casing and slick black keys, had been her one source of comfort, the key to her vault of creativity, the entire basis of her online career.

She had studied English Literature in university, and supposed that it had slowly integrated itself into her job, but not as much as any passion for reading and writing would have, and Clara loved both pastimes just as equally. Opening a new tab on her browser, she clicked the topmost sight and waited patiently as the airport wifi sluggishly drew her personal website onto the screen. She couldn't help but smile once it was fully loaded.

101 Places to See, the title of the site gleaned in stark bold letters and a serif font. Passenger of Earth, student for life, and reader of all things intriguing. Her brain child since she was sixteen years-old, gradually converting itself into her full-time job. And nobody, except maybe her father and best friend Nina, knew it was her who was in charge of it.

It all began with a blog post eight years ago about a trip she had taken to Oxford University, an institution she knew she would never be accepted into, but was interested in seeing nonetheless. She wrote about her experience in vivid detail: the buildings she visited, the restaurants she ate at, the tune in which the birds sang. She wanted to document it all down so she would never forget it, and post it on the Internet to make the holiday a permanent fixture of her life. Never before had she felt more mature, as if just visiting the place was enough to inspire her to write about all the baby steps she took towards adulthood.

Developing into a fully-fledged travel-opinion blog intertwined with pieces of personal intimacy, 101 Places to See was named one of the top domains for lifestyle journalism in the previous year, a title that still surprised Clara even to this day. And the great thing about it was that she could write about anything her heart desired without it ever being traced back to her. For the public eye didn't associate the site with Clara at all, but with Oswin, a pseudonym she had created on a whim the day she finished that Oxford article. What had once been a privacy issue had now established itself as her official disguise against the online world, an invisible sort of freedom that allowed her to speak her mind as openly as she wanted to without being judged by her peers. It was the perfect creative outlet.

Scrolling through the home page, Clara clicked on her most recent post, an overview of her visit to San Francisco, where she had tried to fit the entire city into a handful of paragraphs without sounding too chatty. Through its thick blanket of fog and eternal autumn weather, I knew that San Francisco would capture me from the moment I stepped off the plane. If she were being honest, it was business that had truly drawn her here, for eight businesses in the general vicinity had offered to pay her for a visit and mention in her writing. It was how she got her revenue, through travel and promotion. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Which is why she nearly cried when she heard back from Wayfarer Industries, an Internet media company whom she had emailed months ago asking to them sponsor 101 Places to See in return for some sort of advertisement on her behalf. It was why she was trying so desperately to get to New York City on time, for a partnership with Wayfarer meant a new wave of professionalism for Clara, a sense of legitimacy in her field. Not only would it increase her audience but allow her to travel to more places, something she was intent on doing since she was seven. She was currently living her dream so to speak, and this opportunity would only extend that ambition.

And now it'll never happen, she told herself. Because of bloody aircraft maintenance.

She tried not to groan too loudly as she held her face in her hands, wanting nothing more but for some solution to present itself, an idea that would lead her to where she needed to be.

Someone cleared their throat in front of her. Clara froze.

"Cappuccino?" the man from the information help desk asked her, his smiling face peering at her through her fingers. Clara sat up straight and eyed him carefully. There was hardly anyone else here except for a band of student travelers in the corner wearing matching shirts, and an elderly couple trying to read the Washington Post from a tablet device. Why was he so eager to approach her?

"Is it decaf?" Clara asked him, unsure of whether or not to subject herself to another round of caffeine, for she was already tired as it is.

The stranger scoffed, as if she had just asked if the Earth was flat. "Not a chance," he said, placing the steaming mug beside her laptop and seating himself opposite her in the booth they now shared in the corner of the café. Clara raised an eyebrow at his temerity, for she wasn't exactly seeking company at the moment, and he was clearly confident enough to try and prove her otherwise.

"Did you really buy this cappuccino for me?"

"I did, yes. Okay with that?"

"Fine, yeah. Think I'm fine," she said more to herself than to him, taking a sip of the warm drink for good measure. "Thank you. How much was it so I can pay you back?"

"Not necessary," the stranger said after taking a sip out of his own mug, a regular coffee with four sugars and a generous helping of creamer. Clara was really beginning to grow suspicious at this point, for she leaned in and peered into the man's eyes, which were a warm shade of hazel that seemed almost incapable of prying away from her pressing stare.

"Why are you being so friendly to me? You barely even know me," Clara said, attempting to get to the bottom of this. "First you give me a cappuccino, then you sit next to me and make conversation. Not to mention you compared yourself to Dave Franco; there's a thing as too keen."

"It was a movie reference!" the stranger said in defense, a tinge of color appearing on his cheeks.

"Yes it is," Clara quipped, taking pride in her curiosity. "Now You See Me 2; I looked it up."

Those hazel eyes sparkled, as if he were pleased that she had found value in their initial exchange. "Well, good then. Now you know."

"But you see, you could have compared yourself to anyone in that scene," Clara smirked, recalling the movie clip of the four illusionists passing the ace of spades between each another during a particularly meticulous inspection. "Woody Harrelson, Lizzy Caplan. Why Franco? Is it because he's the good-looking one?"

"Are you saying I'm good-looking?" he asked her with a smug expression.

Now it was Clara's turn to blush.

He had the most interesting set of facial expressions, this man. It was as if every muscle in his face gravitated naturally towards a smile, even when everyone else would usually be exhausted at this time of day. Now that she sat across from him she could fully study his features, the way he played with his hands as if they couldn't stay still, his prominent jawline that accentuated an already prominent chin, and the faintest of eyebrows that raised ever so slightly when he talked to her. And yet there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, something that only revealed itself to her when she really looked. It was as if he were trying to hide that sadness by acting so rambunctious.

"What's your name?" he asked her, tipping his coffee mug back as he took a generous sip.

"Clara. Clara Oswald."

"Nice name, Clara. You should definitely keep it."

She thought back to Oswin, how she cloaked herself in the name without ever questioning it, and pushed the notion aside. She would not think about work for the time being.

"And you? What's your name?" she found herself asking, staring at the foam design of her cappuccino that was gradually ebbing away with each passing sip.

"John Smith," he smiled warmly, extending his hand out for a shake. She took it. "And to answer your previous question...you looked as if you were having an off day. I wanted to see if I could help."

Clara couldn't help but feel touched at the fact that John, a complete stranger, had been kind enough to notice. "Thank you," she spoke earnestly, taking a long sip of her cappuccino, letting it fill her to the brim in lieu of the disappointment that was this entire day. "I assume your flight's been delayed? You were certainly in a hurry back there," she observed, recalling his undone bow-tie and bedraggled hair.

John waved it off with a hand. "Ah, my flight's been cancelled. Trying not to think about it too much."

"Flight 1112 to New York?" she asked, to which he nodded in response. She heaved a sigh. "You and me both, mate."

"Blimey, that woman at the help desk was so irritated with me."

"I know! She couldn't stand the sight of me!" she laughed, a smile appearing on the man's face as he, too joined in her fit of giggles. "Did she give you the three options? Thursday flight, Omaha, or rental car?"

"Yes, actually," John replied, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms. "I've decided upon one of them, even."

"Oh?" Clara raised an eyebrow, closing her laptop to give full attention to the conversation. "Do intrigue me."

John pressed his lips into a thin line, finishing off the rest of his coffee before explaining to her the entirety of his plan. "It's my good friend's birthday this coming Wednesday, and I can't miss it, or else she'll kill me. Quite literally." He propped his chin up on a fist, pondering over the insanity that was to ensue over the next forty-eight hours. "She and her husband live in New York. Me being from London, I never get to see them, so this trip means a lot and I'm determined not to botch it."

Clara could tell by the determination in his eyes that him being there was something that was going to happen, no matter the distance between San Francisco and New York. It made her question the weakness in her own planning. Was she really willing to give up Wayfarer Industries that quickly, without putting in the effort that John was evidently trying to make? Both of the options that involved flying meant he'd arrive in New York past his friend's birthday, so that only meant...

"Oh my gosh. You're actually doing it," she said, eyes widening. "You're driving to New York City."

"Yep," the man said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "I've never driven on the other side of the road before, so we'll see how that goes."

Clara stared at him in awe, for though she'd never say it aloud, she was deeply impressed at how brave he was. "You're insane," was all she said, shaking her head. "I could never do that."

"Even if you had plans?"

"I always have plans," she said defensively, picking at her nails in a nervous twitch. "At least, I had plans. Before they were ruthlessly butchered by aircraft maintenance."

John laughed, readjusting his bow-tie before asking, "What kind of plans?"

The young traveler smiled back at him, a sad sort of smile that made her heart sink ever so slightly. "A job interview. I was supposed to be meeting with Wayfarer Industries Wednesday afternoon, but now...I dunno. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose."

"Nonsense," John huffed, unable to accept the fact that this woman was throwing away such an amazing opportunity at the blink of an eye. "Plans are plans, we may commit to them, we may not, but there are very few where we know it in our hearts are ours to fulfill." He was beginning to grow passionate now, his hands gesturing frenetically in the air as if to further emphasize his point. "You're going to New York City, Clara Oswald. And you will be on time for that interview."

Clara finished off her cappuccino, and setting down her mug, saw but an empty void. A clear representation of her current solution to this problem. "And how do you suppose I do that?" she asked him helplessly, sitting back in the booth and folding her arms across her chest. "How do you suppose I get there on time?"

John Smith smiled at the woman across from him, and wondered how on Earth he had managed to meet anyone so witty in his life. Even when he had first seen her he had instantly been drawn by her curious, brown eyes, the way she spoke as if every word had its purpose. He knew she was a writer from what he had overheard at the help desk, and was keen to know what, exactly, she was working on. Perhaps, if she responded positively towards his next three words, he'd be able to find out.

"Come with me."