The Lost Passport

Raul was going home to Lima after six months in London. He arrived at Heathrow early, at nine o'clock. His flight was at eleven thirty. He checked in his suitcase, bought a coffee and sat down at a small table in a cafe.

At half past nine, he walked to security. He put his hand in his jacket pocket for his passport. It wasn't there. He looked in his backpack. Nothing. His heart was beating fast. "This can't be happening," he thought.

He stopped a woman in a uniform. "Excuse me, can you help me? I think I've lost my passport." "Don't worry," she said calmly. "Go to the information desk. It's over there, next to the shops."

At the information desk, a man took his name and phone number. "Where were you before you noticed?" he asked. "I was having breakfast in a cafe," said Raul. "I'll call the cafe and lost property," said the man. "You should call your embassy too, just in case."

Raul called the Peruvian embassy. A woman explained that they could give him an emergency travel document, but it was going to take at least a day. Raul sat down. He was going to miss his flight. His mother was waiting for him in Lima. It was ten fifteen.

Then his phone rang. It was the man from the information desk. "Good news. A cleaner has found a passport." Raul ran back. At the desk there was a woman with a cleaning trolley. She was holding his passport. "It was on the floor under a table in the cafe," she said. "I think it fell out of your pocket."

Raul wanted to hug her. "Thank you so much! What's your name?" "Joyce," she said, smiling. He ran to security and got to the gate just in time. On the plane, he wrote a thank-you card to Joyce. He sent it from Lima with a bag of Peruvian chocolate.