“I have school.”
“It’s Saturday mornings.”
“That’s worse.”
Reeves smiled.
“See you Saturday.”
Winter arrived.
Then Christmas.
The airport transformed.
Garlands hung above the check-in counters.
Recorded holiday songs played too often.
Passengers carried gift bags and children wore reindeer sweaters.
Ethan still had not seen Harold.
He had almost stopped expecting to.
On December 22, Ethan worked the late shift.
At 8:11 p.m., rain began striking the windows.
Not snow.
Just cold winter rain.
It reminded Ethan immediately of that night.
He was directing passengers toward an international departure when he noticed a familiar object near the seating area.
One dark-tan leather travel bag.
Ethan stopped.
His heart jumped.
Then he saw the shoes.
Old chestnut leather.
He smiled before he even saw Harold’s face.
The old man sat near the window.
Same faded olive-brown jacket.
Same dusty burgundy sweater.
Silver hair.
White stubble.
No wheelchair.
Ethan walked toward him.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Harold looked up.
“Hello, Ethan.”
“You disappeared.”
“I was busy.”
“For four months?”
“I move slowly.”
Ethan laughed.
Harold stood.
He looked healthier.
Still thin.
Still weathered.
Still dressed almost exactly the same.
Ethan pointed toward him.
“You ate today?”
Harold raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Lunch.”
“What did you have?”
“This is becoming intrusive.”
“What did you have?”
“Chicken.”
Ethan nodded.
“Okay.”
Harold smiled.
“You’ve become very authoritative.”
“I’ve had advanced training.”
“I heard.”
Ethan stopped.
“How?”
Harold ignored the question.
“Your job?”
“Still here.”
“School?”
“Still there too.”
“Your mother?”
“Still worried.”
“Your sister?”
“Still thinks I’m going to get arrested.”
Harold laughed.
They sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Rain ran down the glass.
An aircraft taxied slowly beyond the terminal lights.
Ethan looked at Harold.
“I still don’t know who you are.”
“No.”
“I asked the CEO.”
“That was rude.”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Good.”
“You told her not to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harold looked outside.
“Because then you might decide helping me was important for the wrong reason.”
Ethan frowned.
“I already helped you.”
“Yes.”
“Before I knew anything.”
“Yes.”
“So what difference would it make now?”
Harold turned toward him.
“That is precisely the question.”
Ethan thought about it.
“Honestly?”
“Preferably.”
“I’m curious.”
Harold smiled.
“Reasonable.”
“But I don’t care.”
Harold’s smile faded slightly.
Ethan continued.
“I mean, I care who you are as a person. But I don’t care whether you’re some executive or rich guy or whatever everyone keeps saying.”
Harold stared.
“The baggage crew says you own an airline.”
“Do they?”
“Security says you’re retired government.”
“Interesting.”
“A woman at Counter Four thinks you’re related to the President.”
Harold almost choked laughing.
Ethan smiled.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Which one?”
Harold shook his head.
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
Ethan leaned back.
“You enjoy this.”
“More than I should.”
Ethan looked at the travel bag.
“What’s in there, anyway?”
“Clothes.”
“That’s disappointingly normal.”
“Would you prefer diamonds?”
“At least then the rumors would make sense.”
Harold became quiet.
After a moment, he said:
“Do you know what I remember most about that night?”
Ethan expected him to say the collapse.
The firing.
The CEO.
Instead Harold said:
“The water bottle.”
Ethan looked at him.
“What?”
“You gave me your water.”
“It was a bottle of water.”
“You were seventeen. You had just been publicly reprimanded by your supervisor. You knew you might lose your job.”
Harold looked down at his hands.
“And your first concern was whether I could hold the bottle.”
Ethan shrugged.
“You were shaking.”
“Yes.”
Harold looked back at him.
“People think character is revealed in large decisions.”
He paused.
“Often it is revealed in five-dollar decisions.”
“That bottle was two dollars.”
“At an airport?”
Ethan laughed.
“Okay, five.”
Harold reached into his travel bag.
Ethan immediately said:
“If you pull out money, I’m leaving.”
Harold stopped.
“You really do interrupt old people a lot.”
“I’m serious.”
“No money.”
He removed a small envelope.
Plain white.
Ethan stared at it.
“What’s that?”
“A Christmas card.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“Open it.”
Ethan did.
Inside was a simple card.
No logo.
No company name.
Just handwriting.
Ethan read.
Ethan,
The world will give you many reasons to become efficient at the cost of becoming kind.
Do not accept that bargain.
Learn the rules.
Respect them.
Become excellent at what you do.
But never become so impressed by a system that you stop seeing the person standing in front of you.
You helped me before you knew whether I mattered.
That is why your help mattered.
— Harold
Ethan read it twice.
When he looked up, Harold was watching him.
“This is really dramatic for a water bottle.”
Harold smiled.
“I’m seventy-eight. We’re allowed.”
Ethan folded the card carefully.
“Thank you.”
Harold nodded.
Then Ethan noticed something else inside the envelope.
A small folded sheet.
He opened it.
It was not money.
Not a check.
It was a letter from the Franklin International Airport Youth Aviation Scholarship Program.
Ethan stared.
He read the first sentence.
Then again.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Harold said nothing.
Ethan continued reading.
He had been selected for a fully funded summer aviation operations program after graduation.
Tuition.
Transportation.
Training.
A paid internship.
His hands began to shake.
He looked at Harold.