Today I left you
        and Orca
      in Atlanta,

      then boarded a flight to DFW
      with one bag,
      one deeply suspicious itinerary,
               and a plan the airline
   refused to recognize as round-trip.

One passenger west.

Four return values east.

Even airport math
     should’ve caught that.

Somewhere over Alabama,
          the cabin lights dimmed,
          the whole aircraft dropped
          into sleep mode,

          and a flight attendant
          leaned into my dream.

“Sir,” she said, “your return type is invalid.”

I opened the manifest:

                   me
                  Ava
                Orcus
              Bubbles

Looks valid.

She tapped Orcus.

“Vehicle.”

Correct.

“Vehicles can’t be return values.”

Ma’am,
      Orcus is a Purple Reign Gladiator
              named like the underworld
                opened a truck division.

He isn’t baggage.

He is the return statement.

She tapped Bubbles.

“Unclassified.”

Also correct.

Bubbles is
          a rounding error with claws,
          a tiny hostile takeover
          wearing a kitten suit,

          and the only known authority
          whose hiss radius can cross state lines

          without a permit.

Ava requires no explanation.

She is the only entry
    on this manifest
     with any reasonable chance
      of knowing what’s going on.

The flight attendant studied the list,
    then me,
    then Bubbles…

         who had appeared on the beverage cart
             and placed one paw
                 on federal aviation regulations.

The regulations marked themselves optional.

DFW appeared below us
    like a motherboard
    that kept adding terminals
    after running out of reasons.

Every runway led to another runway.
Every gate required a train.
Every train announced: STILL DFW.

When the wheels touched Texas,
 the dream changed interfaces.

BAGGAGE CLAIM:

        Ava: claimed.

        Orcus: technically parked.

        Bubbles: has rejected
                 the entire ownership model.

        Me: looking for coffee.

Then I-20 unrolled beneath us
     like a stack trace:

        Fort Worth
          Shreveport
            Vicksburg
              Birmingham
                Atlanta

     each city insisting
          the bug started

          one exit farther west.

Ava took the passenger seat.
I took the wheel.
Orcus took the assignment personally.

Bubbles took control without taking questions.

Texas tried to keep us.

It does that.

Bubbles hissed once.

Texas,
      being Texas,
      claimed the retreat
         was its own idea.

At every state line,
   the permissions escalated:

       Louisiana: administrator.
       Mississippi: superuser.
       Alabama: somebody take the keyboard.
       Georgia: root.

Meanwhile,
          somewhere in the Atlanta process,
          Orca sat straight up

               for no reason she could explain.

In the dream, you looked at her.

She looked west.

The hiss field had shifted.

Nero detected
     an inbound Purple Reign device,
        ran one diagnostic,

        CAT PAYLOAD: TRUE

        and locked his doors.

Allegedly.

325 recalculated occupancy
        and began checking
    the load-bearing walls.

You were the only system
           not panicking.

Which tracks.

And under all that noise,
    one instruction stayed plain:

        go west empty enough
        to bring Ava home,

        then point every available wheel
                         back toward you.

Even dreams know
     which coordinate
           doesn’t need validating.

By the time Atlanta loaded,
   the return array contained:

       Ava.
       Orcus.
       Bubbles.
       Me.

And one revised chain of command.

STATUS:

       Ava: home.
       Orcus: parked.
       Me: returned.
       Bubbles: root.

Orca has requested a rollback.

Bubbles denied it.