The black canvas suitcase landed on the silver metal slats of carousel four with a dull, heavy thud.

David grabbed the thick leather handle before the bag could slide back toward the black rubber flaps.

He pulled it off, stood it upright on the concrete floor, and wiped a streak of gray belt grease off his palm with a folded handkerchief.

“The Lisbon office opens its doors on the fifteenth of next month,” David said.

I hauled my own gray hard-shell case off the belt and set it down next to his.

“I can’t take an overseas transfer at the moment, David,” I said.

“The European division is doubling your housing stipend,” he said.

He tapped his thumb on his phone screen, scrolling through his work email as he talked.

“You told me in your performance review last quarter that you wanted the senior track.”

“My mother counts on eighteen hundred dollars from me on the first of every month,” I said.

“The house out in the Chicago suburbs still has six years left on its mortgage.”

David didn’t put his phone away.

He glanced up over the top of the glowing screen.

“Is your brother still living down in the basement?”

“He’s twenty-nine and looking for a job,” I said.

“Eighteen hundred dollars a month will get you a two-bedroom apartment looking out over the Tagus River,” David said.

“A Lisbon hotel room runs a hundred and forty-five dollars a night while you get settled, and the company pays for sixty days of it.”

He took hold of the telescoping handle on his bag and headed for the sliding glass exit doors.