Chapter 4: Six A.M.

Terminal E at six in the morning smells of burnt coffee and floor cleaner.

I had been standing at the arrivals rail since a quarter to, with my hands in my coat pockets so I wouldn't fidget.

Eleven weeks.

I had told myself I remembered his face.

Then the doors slid open, and I realized I'd only remembered pieces of it.

Ansel came out with one canvas bag over his shoulder and his coat open.

His dark hair had more gray at the temples than I'd kept in my head, and the scar through his right eyebrow looked whiter under the airport lights.

He was tired, with dark shadows under his eyes.

He saw me, and he stopped walking.

A woman with a stroller had to go around him.

Then he came the rest of the way and halted two feet short of me, and neither of us said anything.

"You look well," he said.

"You look like you slept on a plane."

"I did not. The man beside me had opinions about the armrest."

I laughed, too loudly, and a few people turned.

His mouth moved at one corner.

"Hello, wife," he said, quietly, so the rail wouldn't hear.

Nobody had called me that out loud since the day we signed.

I felt it all the way down my arms.

"Careful," I said. "There's a rail full of people."

"Rule three is the one that worries me," he said. "No touching unless one of us asks."

"I know. I wrote half of it."

He didn't move.

He stood with his bag on his shoulder and his hands where I could see them.

I had not planned what to do with the next ten seconds.

"You can hug me," I said. "I'm asking."

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