Arlo’s Pocket Compass — The runway smelled of warm rubber and cut grass when Arlo slipped the tiny compass from his satchel. Read the full story →
The runway smelled of warm rubber and cut grass when Arlo slipped the tiny compass from his satchel. He had carried it all morning, thumb rubbing the dent on its lid, waiting to wave at the red sky taxi before it rolled toward the clouds. The pilot had promised one wave back, and Arlo wanted to be brave enough to raise his hand first.
Propellers clacked softly in the breeze. The control tower windows flashed like stacked mirrors, and the clouds seemed parked in neat rows above the field. Arlo opened the compass, expecting the needle to point north. Instead, it trembled toward the airplane’s painted words: FLY HIGH. “Not north?” he whispered.
Then the pilot lifted a gloved hand and held up an identical compass, dent and all. Arlo’s uncle had not left his courage inside the little brass case; he had lent Arlo the feeling of being answered. Arlo waved, small at first, then wide as a wing. Next time you see his raised hand, see if you can spot the satchel that carried the warm-rubber morning.
