“You go on inside and wait by the main ticketing desk, Claire,” my father said, his voice loud over the roar of a passing shuttle bus. “We’ll go park the van in the daily lot and meet you right there.”
“I can wait out here with you,” I said.
“No need,” he said, waving his hand toward the sliding glass doors. “It takes twenty minutes to get through the garage queue, and there’s no sense in you standing in the exhaust.”
He climbed back into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut before I could reply.
The minivan merged into the middle lane, its brake lights flashing once before it disappeared around the curve of the parking structure. I picked up the handle of my suitcase and walked into the terminal.
The air inside was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and floor wax. I made my way toward the airline counter, finding a spot near the back of the queue.
