A flight attendant moved quietly down the aisle and stopped to hand me a small bottle of water.

I whispered my thanks, tucked the unopened water into the seat pocket, and closed the blue paper file on my lap as the cabin lights dimmed.

We touched down in San Diego at six fifteen in the morning.

The air in the jet bridge was cool and dry and carried a faint smell of ocean tide that felt nothing like the heavy humidity of Manhattan.

Theo Callahan was waiting by the glass doors at the arrival gate with two paper coffee cups.