The rip opened another inch when I lifted my backpack.

I set it back down.

One side had split almost completely open.

~

I’d found my backpack on the side of the road. I brought it to school. Then I brought it to Costa Rica.

On my first weekend trip that semester, I went with friends to Playa del Coco.

My backpack came with me.

We left after school, making our way to the Coca-Cola bus station in San José—a chaotic sprawl built from an old bottling plant, now part transit hub and part flea market.

We got lost almost immediately.

The streets around the station folded into one another, with buses squeezing past market stalls and pedestrians spilling into the road.

We followed the crowd for a while, then followed a street that looked familiar, then ended up beside the same row of stalls we’d passed ten minutes earlier.

Vanessa stopped and unfolded her map while Rachel asked for directions.

I shifted my backpack higher on my shoulders as the crowd pressed around us.

One man pointed Vanessa toward the market.

Another pointed her back the way we’d come.

We tried a third street, walking a few hundred feet—backpacks pressed against our chests as we squeezed between the stalls.

Nothing looked right.

Eventually, Vanessa gave up.

She stepped into the street and flagged down a taxi.

“Coca-Cola, por favor.”

The driver listened to the name of the bus station, smiled, and waved us in.

Two blocks later, he pulled over.

“Here.”

“Already?”

I looked around.

Coca-Cola station stood outside the window.

He laughed again.

Six hours into the ride north, I noticed the bus’s luggage compartment hanging open.

Bags were inching toward the edge with every bump.

“Stop.”

I caught myself.

“Alto.”

The driver looked at me.

“Bags.”

“Um… puerto.”

I pointed.

He shrugged.

“Siéntese.”

I sighed.

Vanessa found me in the aisle as I walked back toward my seat.

She looked at me.

“I’ve got this.”

She translated, and the bus finally stopped.

After that, I stopped trusting the space beneath the bus.

~

Weeks later, my backpack tore.

I walked back to the flea market near the Coca-Cola station.

Tarps stretched across blocks. Vendors sold cassette players, bicycle parts, and piles of faded clothing stacked shoulder-high.

I wandered through the aisles looking for one thing.

An old pair of blue jeans. The more worn, the better.

Back home, my host mom handed me a needle and thread while I cut the denim into patches.

My first attempt failed.

The fabric around the tear was too weak.

So I started over.

This time I twisted the thread into a thick twine, pulling each stitch tight until the denim fused into the backpack itself.

It wasn’t delicate work.

It didn’t need to be.

A few days later, I sat on the lawn at school finishing the last of the stitching.

Dark blue denim covered one entire side. Heavy stitches zigzagged across it.

Classmates wandered past.

“What happened to your backpack?”

“It exploded.”

They laughed.

I tugged at the seems.

It held.

The next weekend, I took it with me on the bus.