Across the Bridge

Carlos woke up at seven in his hotel in San Francisco and looked at his phone. His flight to Mexico City was at ten. He had a problem: last night he set the alarm for the wrong time. "No, no, no!" he shouted. He threw his clothes into his bag and ran out of the room.

He ran down the stairs, through the lobby and out of the hotel. There were no taxis on the street. "The bus is too slow," he thought. So he started to run. He ran along the street, past a coffee shop and into the park. A woman with a dog shouted, "Good luck!"

He ran across the park and up a small hill. From the top, he could see the bridge. He ran down the hill, over the bridge and past a line of slow cars. On the other side, he finally saw a taxi. "The airport, please. Fast!" The driver looked at him in the mirror. "Everybody says that," he said.

They drove along the highway. Carlos looked at the clock every minute. At nine fifteen, they arrived at the airport. Carlos jumped out of the taxi, ran into the terminal and went through security with his shoes in his hand.

He got to the gate at nine forty. The door was still open. "Mexico City?" asked the woman at the desk. "Yes!" said Carlos. "You're the last one," she said. He got on the plane, sat down and closed his eyes.

Three hours later, he arrived in Mexico City. His mother was waiting at the airport. "You look tired," she said. "Did you walk here?"