It's, what, 1:30 am or thereabouts. Sunday. I may be a little drunk. OK, there's no maybe about it. I've called a taxi to take me home, and the household is organising itself into various beds. I hug Josh a final goodbye - he has to be at the airport at 5, flying to Sydney, and then onto L.A. He stuffs a last few things into his backpack, then he hands me a fairly ordinary looking feather in a mylar bag.
I wonder why anyone would put such a thing as could be found along any beach or duckpond into a plastic bag, and say intelligently "Thanks. It's a feather, in a bag?"
"It's a pen" he says, and when I look closer, yes, indeed, it's a pen. Cool.
He should be home-ish by now. I hope he's had a good flight.