Terminal Four
He is going to take them.
That is the first thing.
Not he found us. Not finally. Not anything about six years.
A man with six hotels and a lawyer on retainer and a family with a name on a building had just appeared thirty feet from a woman who had been told, on Tannehill & Rasmussen letterhead, that he would take the children away at birth if she did not leave New York — and she was on the floor of an airport with seventy-one dollars and no address, on the Friday, between two leases, which is the single worst moment in six years for a custody question to arrive.
She was not wrong to think it.