Thirty-Six Pages of Bank Receipts and the Chicago Mortgage Transfer I Finally Canceled

Inside the cabin, the air was cool and dry and smelled faintly of jet fuel and clean linen.

I found seat 12A in the forward section, pushed my shoulder bag under the seat in front of me, and fastened the heavy canvas belt across my lap.

Outside the little oval window, the rain was coming down harder, running down the thick glass in long streaks over the orange runway lights.

The engines started their low, shuddering whine as the tug pushed the plane back from the terminal onto the dark stretch of tarmac.

Somewhere six thousand miles behind me, past the Atlantic Ocean, midnight was closing in on Chicago, and Margaret was asleep in a house that no longer had one line of credit tied to my name.