seventy-one. [Airport Greetings.]
According to the flashing words on the monitor, the connecting flight from Cleveland is late, and so he slumps back into his seat, still clutching a cardboard sign with the boy’s name written across it in neat block letters. It is written on an unfortunate upward slant, which bothers Isaiah; he’d have re-written it had there been time, but the sign was an afterthought.
Isaiah sort-of expected this to be like the stories of reluctant relatives becoming sudden parents, but the people in those stories are always excited or nervous or something, and he doesn’t feel much of anything at all.
Isaiah sort-of expected this to be like the stories of reluctant relatives becoming sudden parents, but the people in those stories are always excited or nervous or something, and he doesn’t feel much of anything at all.