Across the crowded concourse I saw them, and they looked like people who had survived something.
Brynn was arguing with Landon over a stack of bar bills, her face pale and bare.
My mother dragged a heavy suitcase, her shoulders down.
My father stood by the exit doors, slouched, staring at the floor, all the bluster finally gone out of him.
Then Brynn spotted me and tapped his shoulder and pointed.
My father looked up, and for a moment, across all those people, our eyes met.
He straightened.
He took a step toward me and opened his mouth — for one last speech, I imagine, one final attempt to make his problem my problem, to guilt me into covering a shuttle or a bar tab or a lifetime.
I didn’t stop.
I didn’t slow down.