A little boy comes back from school, shoulders slumped, his backpack swinging with each step. His face is red with frustration, and he kicks at a small stone on the sidewalk.
“I got a zero on my geography exam,” he mutters, dropping his books onto the table.
His mother, busy folding laundry in the living room, looks up with concern. “A zero? Why? What happened?”
“The teacher gave me a zero because I couldn’t answer a question on Portugal,” he says, his voice small and disappointed.
She raises an eyebrow. “What exactly was the question?”
“Where’s Portugal,” he says, almost in a whisper.
She blinks, incredulous. “The idiot teacher! I’m going to call the principal’s office. But in the meantime… we’re going to find Portugal ourselves.”
They spread out maps across the kitchen table. First, a map of the state. No Portugal. Then a map of the region. Still nothing. She tries a city map, hoping for a miracle. Nothing.
“I swear, Portugal can’t be far,” she mutters, tapping her finger along the maps. “It’s like it vanished.”
Her son frowns. “Maybe the teacher moved it.”
She sighs. “No, it’s probably nearby. The maid is from Portugal and she comes here every day on her bicycle.”
The boy looks up, eyes wide. “You mean… Portugal is like, right here in our neighborhood?”
She nods solemnly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Exactly. That teacher needs a geography lesson more than you do.”
Meanwhile, in a completely different story…
A young woman walks into a luxury car dealership, the kind with floors so shiny you can see your reflection like polished glass. The smell of leather and new car polish hits her immediately. Rows of gleaming vehicles are lined up: Porsches, Lamborghinis, Jaguars, and more exotic machines that look like they could fly off the lot at any moment.
She approaches the salesman, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor. “Can I have the red one?” she says, pointing to a top-of-the-line Porsche, its paint shimmering under the showroom lights.
“I’ll pay cash!” She produces a carrier bag and begins emptying handfuls of crisp notes onto the counter, counting carefully until she reaches the exact price. The deal is finalized within minutes, and she drives off with a roar, the engine purring like a caged tiger.
Two days later, she storms back into the dealership, her expression stormy. “I want my money back,” she declares. “It smells awfully bad when I use the brakes.”
The manager, alarmed, doesn’t want to lose the sale or appear incompetent. He decides to ride along, thinking perhaps she’s inexperienced with such a high-powered car.
As he climbs in, she slams the door and roars out of the dealership. Immediately, she drops the car into second gear at 55 mph. The engine growls. She floors the pedal again and slips into third gear at 80 mph. The tires squeal as she executes a perfect handbrake turn onto a narrow country lane.
He grips the seat, knuckles white, as she accelerates further. 120 mph in fourth gear. 145 mph in fifth. The engine screams as if it’s trying to leap out of the hood. The green countryside blurs past, and the G-force pins him into the seat.
In the distance, he sees the barriers of a level crossing beginning to descend. Relief floods him—she’ll have to slow down, surely! But instead, she keeps her foot on the gas, the pitch of the engine climbing even higher.
One hundred yards from the crossing, she slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop inches from the barrier.
She turns to him with a grin. “Can you smell it?”
“SMELL IT?” he shouts, his face pale. “I’M SITTING IN IT!”