Harold considered him.
“You’re worried.”
“I’m responsible for this terminal.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Reeves tightened his jaw.
Harold continued.
“You’re worried because you believe I may know someone important.”
Reeves said nothing.
Harold looked down at his worn shoes.
“Ten minutes ago, you believed I was nobody.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I saw an operational problem.”
“You saw an old man on the floor.”
“I called medical.”
“And told the first person helping him to go back to work.”
“Because we have procedures.”
Harold nodded slowly.
“There’s that word again.”
“Procedures exist for a reason.”
“Of course they do.”
Harold’s tone was not mocking.
That seemed to bother Reeves more.
Harold continued:
“But sometimes a procedure tells you what to do with a situation, while a human being tells you what to do with a person.”
Reeves’ face tightened.
Ethan wished Harold would stop.
Not because he disagreed.
Because Reeves looked less angry now.
And more wounded.
Ethan knew that expression.
Adults often wore it when someone said something they had already been saying to themselves.
Reeves glanced at Ethan.
“You’re still fired.”
Ethan nodded.
“I know.”
Harold raised an eyebrow.
“You sound determined to keep repeating that.”
“Because it’s my decision.”
“Then you should be comfortable with it.”
Reeves opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Harold turned to Ethan.
“Food.”
Ethan pushed the wheelchair around Reeves.
The café was packed.
Delayed passengers filled almost every seat.
Ethan managed to find a small table near a charging station.
“What do you want?”
“Coffee.”
“You need food.”
Harold sighed.
“You sound like my doctor.”
“Your doctor is probably right.”
“A disappointing character flaw.”
Ethan bought him tomato soup and a turkey sandwich with his employee discount.
Then remembered he was no longer an employee.
The cashier had already scanned his badge.
Ethan stared at the receipt.
Harold noticed.
“How much?”
“It’s fine.”
“How much?”
“Eleven forty.”
Harold reached toward his jacket.
Ethan shook his head.
“Don’t.”
“I can pay for my dinner.”
“You can pay me back when you stop shaking.”
Harold looked at his hands.
They were steadier now.
“You don’t have much money, do you?”
Ethan stiffened.
“What makes you think that?”
“You checked the price before you ordered.”
“Everybody does that.”
“No, they don’t.”
Ethan sat across from him.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Harold took a spoonful of soup.
“And you answer very few.”
“Maybe because you’re a stranger.”
“Good instinct.”
They ate in silence for a moment.
Harold took another spoonful.
Then another.
Color slowly returned to his face.
“Why do you work here?”
Ethan peeled the label from his water bottle.
“Worked.”
“Why did you work here?”
“Money.”
“Only money?”
Ethan shrugged.
“I like airports.”
Harold glanced around.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That usually means you do know.”
Ethan sighed.
“When I was little, my dad used to bring us here.”
Harold waited.
“He worked maintenance. Not at this terminal. Across the airport.”
“Does he still?”
“No.”
Harold did not ask why.
Ethan appreciated that.
“My dad used to say airports are the only place where everybody is between lives.”
Harold looked interested.
“Between lives?”
“You’re leaving somewhere. Going somewhere else. Meeting someone. Leaving someone. Starting over. Coming home.”
Ethan shrugged awkwardly.
“It sounded better when he said it.”
“No. It sounds good when you say it.”
Ethan looked away.
“Anyway, I thought working here would be interesting.”
“And was it?”
“Mostly people asking where the bathroom is.”
Harold laughed.
Ethan smiled despite himself.
Then Harold’s expression became serious.
“What happens now?”
“I go home.”
“And after that?”
“I find another job.”
“Will that be difficult?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“I’m seventeen.”
Harold nodded.
“And your family needs the money.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“How do you know that?”
Harold pointed at the untouched half of Ethan’s sandwich.
“You bought one sandwich and gave me the bigger half.”
Ethan looked down.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Another bad lie.”
Ethan sighed.
“My mom will be mad.”
“Because you were fired?”
“Because I got fired for doing something she’ll say she’s proud of.”
Harold smiled.
“That sounds complicated.”
“She’ll tell me I did the right thing, then spend all night worrying about rent.”
Harold stopped eating.
For a moment, something deeply sad crossed his face.
“So doing the right thing can hurt people you love.”
Ethan looked at him.
“Yeah.”
Harold lowered his eyes.
“Yes. It can.”
Before Ethan could ask what he meant, a voice crackled over the terminal speakers.
“Attention all passengers. Due to severe weather, ground operations are temporarily suspended. Please remain inside the terminal until further notice.”
A collective groan rolled through the building.
Harold looked toward the windows.
The rain had intensified.
Wind pushed sheets of water across the glass.
Outside, runway lights glowed through the storm.
Then overhead lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The terminal screens blinked.
A few passengers looked up.
Ethan did too.
The lights stabilized.
Harold took another bite.
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes.”
Another flicker.
Then a loud electronic chime sounded.
Several check-in monitors went black.
A luggage belt stopped.
Airport employees began speaking rapidly into radios.
Reeves appeared across the concourse.
He looked toward the dark screens.
Then toward the growing passenger lines.
Then toward Ethan.
For just a second, their eyes met.
And Ethan knew something was wrong.
PART III — WHEN THE TERMINAL STOPPED MOVING
At 7:36 p.m., Terminal Three began to fail.
Not dramatically.
No explosion.
No screaming alarm.
Just one system after another.
First the check-in screens froze.
Then the self-service kiosks went offline.
Then several baggage belts stopped.
A delayed international flight was suddenly assigned a new gate, but the announcement system failed to update half the monitors.
Passengers began crowding the information desks.
“What’s happening?”
“My flight disappeared.”
“Where is Gate C22?”
“Why isn’t my luggage tag printing?”
“Can someone help us?”
Rain hammered the windows.
Outside, lightning flashed.
An announcement sounded, broke into static, then stopped.
Reeves stood in the middle of it all.
His radio crackled continuously.
“Terminal Three, report.”
“We have partial systems failure.”
“Backup terminals?”
“Coming online slowly.”
“Passenger processing?”
“Manual where possible.”
“What about staffing?”
Reeves looked around.
They were already short.
Two employees were assisting medical staff.
One had been sent to baggage.
And Ethan—the employee who knew the floor, the lines and the passenger-assistance routine—was sitting at a café wearing an employee badge he was supposed to have surrendered.
Reeves cursed under his breath.