DISCLAIMER: Still a poor writer of fics and other stories; still not Cameron Crowe. Thanks to those who reviewed!

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For a minute or two William stood and watched, blinking in disbelief; for a minute or two he toyed with the idea of letting her go, then holing up in his Best Western room for the next two days, vanishing from Morocco as if a phantom. But then she moved from the newsstand at which she stood, turned to leave, and he found that his feet were pounding against the tile floor. He also seemed to be yelling. "Penny!" Nothing. "PENNY! PENNY LANE!"

The blond aura of curls stopped, then bounced as she slowly turned her head. The look of vague confusion on her face quickly changed to recognition as she spotted him thundering toward her (although how could she not notice, thought William, he'd always run a little funny, and now bit his lip midstride); "Mr. William Miller!" she said happily. "How are you?"

"Okay," he panted, hands on his knees. His lower back felt sore; his duffel bag had been beating against it as he ran. "So... you... really did it... huh?"

She grinned. The familiarity of it burned his eyeballs. "Miss Anastasia Carbondale, jewelry-maker and airport-loiterer, at your service." She extended a hand, which William shook awkwardly. Penny -- and Anastasia, and Lady -- let out a tiny laugh. "Come on, let's go somewhere."

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"I like airports," she confessed. In his hotel room the one full-size bed was encased in a striped navy comforter, which had looked rather tidy and nice before she'd sat on it. "They're tiny microcosms of the human race."

"Like a college, you mean?"

"Yes," said Penny, who had never been to college, "but smaller."

"Like a tour bus." William eyed her under lowered lids, fiddling with the zipper on his duffel bag. He wanted to make sure everything was still there; on a family vacation a few years ago the flight had lost his luggage, and since then he had never quite trusted airlines.

Penny's face sort of stopped for a moment, the same way it had when he told her Russell sold her out for Heineken, then her expression of amiability came back full force. "Something like that," she said. A pause. "Listen--" It was her you're too sweet for rock and roll voice, the one William felt patronizing, and a strong wave of dislike splashed him across the face.

"I called you," he said. God, he felt fifteen and awkward all over again. "You said to call if I needed a rescue."

"Did I?"

"Yeah," he spewed, "the night we met, at Black Sabbath, outside the loading dock after you asked if I wanted to come here" -- he gestured to Morocco through the window -- "and right before Mom used the family whistle and I had to go." He halted, realizing how he must sound. So much for sounding mature. "Sorry," he added.

Penny nodded. "I was probably here when you called. I meant to maybe call when I got back, but that didn't end up happening." She smiled wryly. "What's it been, five years?"

"About that."

"Well, that calls for a sort of reunion celebration," she said, "so get up. I'm taking you to dinner." She stood up, hands on her hips, and raised her eyebrows at him.