I reached into my purse for my wallet and felt the folded paper gate pass I had printed at my office the previous afternoon. I had paid for my own seat three weeks ago, sending my father a check for my share of the group booking.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The digital clock above the baggage scales showed twelve-thirty.
I pulled out my phone and checked the group chat. There were no new messages from Evan or Chloe, and my mother’s icon remained dark.
A family of four behind me was arguing about who had the passports, their high-pitched voices bouncing off the high ceiling.
“Next customer, please,” the agent called.
I walked up to the counter, lifting my suitcase onto the scale. The agent’s name tag read Sarah.
“Hi, I’m checking in for the one-forty-five flight to San Jose,” I said.
I handed her my driver’s license. She laid it flat on her keyboard and began to type, her fingers moving in a rapid, rhythmic pattern.
She frowned, her eyes scanning the blue screen. She typed another sequence, then stopped.
