Eager to find distraction in something, I crack open the bedroom door and practically gallop out and into the living room, the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen nearby – which John is currently slaving over – making my stomach growl. Starla's baggage lays at the end of the couch near the wall on the far side, with the larger suitcase sandwiched between said couch and the smaller bag. I drag it out and pull open the zipper.