Chapter 6: Gate Twelve

The international terminal was nearly empty at half past four on Tuesday morning.

Hank and I sat on a bench by the pillar across from the check-in desks, and I took my pills with airport coffee.

Neither of us said anything.

At ten to five the doors opened and my brother pushed a luggage cart through them.

Dorian wore a gray overcoat.

Joanna walked a step behind him with the boy asleep on her shoulder.

My mother came last, in her blue scarf, carrying a small bag, to see them off.

They joined the line at the first desk.

Hank touched my elbow.

"Your call," he said.

I stood up.

I crossed the polished floor and stopped in front of the cart, so close that my shadow fell across the boy's blanket.

"Hello, Joanna," I said.

Her head came up.

For one second her face had nothing on it at all.

"Sir, I think you have the wrong person," she said.

Her voice was perfectly level.

"Say my name," I told her.

"I don't know you. Dorian."

Dorian stepped forward and put his chest between us.

"Connor. Not here."

"Where, then?" I said. "At a funeral? You've done it at a funeral."

The people in line began to turn.

A man in a suit lowered his newspaper.

A teenager with headphones lifted his phone and pointed it at us.

My mother caught my sleeve.

"Connor, honey, you're not well. You've had a rough week."

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