Maya's flight landed at nine in the evening, two hours late, and by the time she reached the baggage claim she was exhausted and hungry. All she wanted was a hot shower and a bed, so she grabbed her black suitcase from the belt, jumped into a taxi, and rode through the rain to her small hotel.
In her room, she laid the suitcase on the bed, opened it, and froze. Inside there were no dresses, no laptop, and no birthday presents for her sister — only men's shirts, a pair of old running shoes, and a thick notebook tied with a rubber band.
Maya checked the tag on the handle, which said 'D. Okafor.' The suitcase looked exactly like hers, with the same brand, the same size, and even a similar scratch on one corner. Somewhere in the city, she realized, a stranger named D. Okafor was probably opening her bag with the same confusion.
There was a phone number under the name, so she took a deep breath and called it. A warm, worried voice answered on the second ring. 'You have my suitcase? Thank goodness. Please — the notebook. Is the notebook safe?'
They met the next morning at a café between their hotels. David Okafor was a gray-haired man with kind eyes, and he held her suitcase in front of him like an apology. 'I am terribly sorry about the mix-up,' he said, 'and thank you for calling so quickly.'
Maya slid his bag across the floor and asked the question that had followed her all night. 'What is in the notebook? You sounded desperate on the phone.'
David smiled and opened it carefully. The pages were covered with small, neat handwriting in faded ink. 'Recipes,' he said. 'My wife collected them her whole life, and she died last year. Next week our daughter opens her own restaurant, and she wants to cook her mother's dishes. This book is the only copy in the world.'
Maya looked at the notebook and suddenly understood that some things cost nothing and are worth everything.
Her phone buzzed — her sister, asking about the presents. 'Got them,' Maya wrote back. 'And a story you will not believe.'