“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the taxi driver said as we pulled up in front of New York City’s Penn Station. Horns blared as impatient drivers vied for room to drop off other passengers.
I took a crisp 20 out of my wallet and handed it to my driver while maneuvering myself, my suitcase and a bag of presents for my grandchildren out onto the street. I couldn’t wait to see them.
Inside the station I tried to buy a bottle of water. My wallet was missing! I’d last seen it balancing on my lap when I paid the taxi driver.
I approached a ticket agent. “I’m supposed to catch a train to see my grandkids, but I just lost my wallet,” I blurted in a shaky voice.
“I’m stranded! No money, no ID, no credit cards…”
“I’m gonna give you a ticket, sweetheart,” the agent said.
I went over a list of the calls I’d need to make when I got to my daughter’s house. Now I have to waste part of this precious weekend worrying over a lost wallet.
My cell phone buzzed. It was a colleague from work. “A man just called the office,” she said. “He found your wallet on the floor of a cab. He’s bringing it right over for safekeeping.”
I spent the weekend knowing friends were watching over my wallet, and angels were watching over me.
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