The Sky Has Three Rooms

That morning Polly tried to count the balloons and lost her place somewhere past sixty. "How many are allowed to fly?" she asked. "The sky here is divided into three parts," the pilot said, "and there are only one hundred and fifty-four flights each day. Everyone is given a place, and everyone stays safe."

Under every balloon, a chase truck was following along the dusty roads below. The pilot spoke into his radio and the crew answered from somewhere down there, watching the balloon the whole way, the way a family watches a kite it does not want to lose.

Then came the landing. The truck stopped in a field with a flat trailer hitched behind it. The pilot gave one breath of fire, waited, and let the balloon sink. Slowly, gently, the basket came down and settled exactly on top of the trailer.

The passengers cheered. The crew gathered the huge envelope in armfuls, folded it flat and packed it away. Polly sat on the pilot's shoulder while everyone celebrated in the morning sun, which had by then been up for a good while.