After I awoke from a two-hour nap in New York’s LaGuardia Airport, I reached for my backpack, which hangs from a hook on the again of my wheelchair. It wasn’t there.

The sensation that arises from the concern of a misplaced merchandise is distressing. My muscle groups tensed as my panic swelled. I turned to look behind my chair, my thoughts racing with the dreaded thought that I had been robbed once I noticed it — my backpack, hanging not from the left hook the place I usually place it, however from the correct hook that’s harder for me to achieve.

That’s unusual, I assumed. Odd certainly for me to have struggled to place the backpack on that hook. Maybe I had moved it there throughout my earlier journey to the lavatory, the place I had gone earlier than discovering a spot to nap on the ground of the LaGuardia terminal constructing? My backpack was there, with my laptop computer nonetheless inside, so all was good — proper?

Regardless of my most precious possessions being intact, I couldn’t shake the concept that one thing was amiss. As I turned, I seen one thing on the ground about ten toes away that was both a coincidence or proof that my baggage had been tampered with, that my belief had been violated in my sleep.

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