The sun was low in the sky when I climbed off the plane, the glare shining right into my eyes. I’d
brought barely anything with me, but at least I had sunglasses – mashed-up brown ones with a wobbly
arm. I’d coveted the rack of chicer options at the airport, but I knew there was no way I could risk the
transaction. I slipped them on. It was a relief in more ways than one: I had to hope they would make me
invisible.