I board the plane, and take my seat quickly. The Mission Pack lays in my lap, tauntingly. Shortly I will open it. Excitement mounts. Tension grows as the other passengers board the plane. A very tall man moves next to me and sits, crammed into the small seat, twisted like a Bavarian pretzel. The Philadelphian calls and bids me good luck. The plane fills. The flight crew readies the cabin.

Delayed. They haven’t put on enough fuel for the trip. We wait. I trace the corners and creases on the Mission Pack, hopeful for the rubber to break contact with the tarmac. The plane is now fuled up. We push back from the gate and taxi out. We are first for takeoff.

The plane lumbers across the ground, bumping and rocking like a clumsy penguin. Faster. Faster. Air catches the wings and the pressure on the wheels gradually decreases. The pressure on the flap of the envelope gradually increases. At the moment the wheels lose their traction, so the tacky glue loses its hold. By the time the plane’s wheels are tucked under its body the mission pack is in hand. A single phrase is scribed on the cover.

“The Grand Triangle”