I spent seven minutes yesterday convinced my keys were in my bag, shaking it like a maraca at the airport security line. They were in my hand the entire time, gripping the bag handle. The TSA agent watched me discover this with the expression of someone attending a free educational film on human stupidity.

I reach into my bag for my keys, find a receipt from 2019, three bobby pins that aren't mine, a loyalty card to a store that closed, and what I'm 99% sure is a raisin—but no keys. So I flip the entire bag upside down like I'm performing an exorcism, and there they are, tangled in a hair tie next to a half-eaten granola bar that's somehow still in its wrapper. Apparently my bag is a time capsule where car keys go to retire.