So I look at the zippers, each and every one undone. Including the ones that zip down the middle of the liner of each suitcase so that you can open the liner, look at the metal and plastic bits and bobs behind, and then spend half an hour attempting to make the velcro tabs inside there align so the liner will stay where it's supposed to be again after you zip it up. And I say to myself, "Gad, I can't use a quarter of all these pockets. My stuff would vanish in them and I would Never Find It Again! Look, there's Jimmy Hoffa!"
I shoved Jimmy Hoffa back in his pocket and zipped him up, then zipped up all the other zippers to test this theory, then went back and opened up every pocket I could find as I looked for him again. Sure enough, I couldn't locate him. "Self," my self said back to me, "It's a good thing you didn't put anything you value in there, lieK, your breath mints. Cuz you need those, or else Sean Astin's hair won't be curly any more, and that would be a shame."