Free The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt

American journey, I had set out from Gare de l'Ouest, Paris. Case in one hand, letter to Thomas Edison and train ticket in the other hand, bowler on my head. My thoughts swam. The intricate metal framework of the train station was trying to give me one last lesson. I could barely hear it. "What?" I asked.
    "
Faites attention!
" the grillwork exhaled, and so I stopped still, causing a pileup in the flow of foot traffic. I was instantly walloped from behind. "
Excusez-moi, monsieur.
" As I turned, a boy more than ten years my junior straightened up, returned my case to the hand from where it had been dislodged. "
Ah, merci,
" I whispered and looked. The letter, the train ticket were still in place. No harm done. I turned again. The boy had disappeared into the crowd.
    "
Messieurs et mesdames,
" a conductor called above the heads of the crowd. He called for my train. The train that would carry me to the boat that would carry me across the sea where I would march directly into the offices of the heroic Mr. Edison, who, I liked to imagine, would kiss me on both cheeks, receiving me as a long-lost son.
    I saw my train just ahead. They were calling for the last riders to board. I reached for my wallet in my back pocket, where I had safely stored the funds from the sale of all I owned, as well as the ticket for passage aboard the sailing ship
Saturnia.
The wallet was gone. The train whistle hollered as if it knew the agony I felt at that moment. The wheels, though stiff and tired, began their slow departure.
    "That is my train to America," I thought. "It is leaving." I stood struck dumb. I checked my pockets one last time. No wallet. No ticket. I did find a scrap of paper where I had, days before, sketched a design for a flying machine. The sight of these hopeful lines kicked me into action. I picked up my case and began to sprint alongside the body of the moving locomotive. I had my eye on a door, and by concentration and tremendous speed I caught it and hurled myself inside, landing against a very surprised, elderly French woman who shoved me off her and spit the word "
Cochon!
" The word made me smile.
    When I reached the harbor I was able to recount every single detail of my original sea ticket. I had, of course, lovingly memorized its every feature, the eleven-digit number, the berth, even the departure gangway and the first mate's name. I talked myself on board.
    After such a panic, my steps were slow as I circled the deck, walking my way to America. My berth lay below the waterline, and so I spent nearly the entire crossing, night and day, strolling the decks. I was in love with my latest invention and, like a lover, I'd stare out at sea, imagining my beloved, a machine I would build once I reached America. The alternating-current polyphase generator. I could picture holding it in my hands, the curve of it, the touch of its metal skin. The possibility was palpable. Here before me was the ocean, infinite, impossible, fantastic, yet there I stood with it, a part of it. The ocean was no different from electricity. Currents, indeed. I would go to America, and when I got there I would build a machine that would generate an electrical ocean. Had anyone ever before made an ocean? I thought not.
    I took stock of my meager belongings:
    • one sheet of paper where I'd been working a particularly long integer
    • one aforementioned sheet of paper with detailed notes for the construction of a flying machine
    • four centimes
    • a number of articles I had written
    • one letter of introduction from Charles Batchelor to Thomas A. Edison, inventor

    Not altogether too much. I had just returned my four coins to my inside breast pocket when two members of the
Saturnia
's crew came around the corner. They leaned over the railing, staring down at the
sea. One sailor even went so far as to step both feet up onto the first rung of the railing so that his hips were above the guard, teetering out over the rail's edge, farther than most