Vermilion | ONC 2023

One

It would not be far-fetched to illustrate the plane's arrival at Baltimore-Washington International as a literal descent into Hell.

For an unreasonable fourteen hours, Avery Gallo had spent the better part of her return home tossing and turning on a row of airport seat cushions with a thin cardigan serving as a blanket and a purple Jansport backpack as a pillow. Gone were the white sands and crystalline waters of Bora Bora, soon to be replaced with the murky puddles and decrepit pavements of DC.

Five days and four nights was not nearly enough time to evoke that "no place like home" feeling.

Any place but home felt more fitting.

The pilot recites the same deplaning speech that he's given countless times before while the flight attendant tries to maintain control of the cabin. The plane had only recently touched down and hands were already scrambling to get to the overhead bins.

Her flight companion, known affectionately as the occupant of seat 24B, finally stretches out of sleep, mumbling something that Avery can't quite make out. Her AirPods died about two hours ago but she keeps them in to make her look as unapproachable as possible.

It doesn't work because the occupant of seat 24B is turning towards her and their lips are moving.
Nodding politely seems to be a sufficient reply and 24B departs without another word.

Hooking her arm through the fraying black strap of her Jansport bag, Avery exits the plane with a stiff lip and hard eyes. A staple tool in her conversation-avoidance arsenal.

At half past eleven, the sun already boasts proudly through the tall windows and the scent of doubly overpriced Starbucks fills the space. Avery chases the scent anyway because supporting American capitalism is her civic duty and because the after effects of caffeine withdrawal were an absolute bitch.

The barista sports her signature green apron and a minimum wage smile that suggests she's already over the day.

Same sis. Same.

Fortunately enough, the line moves quickly and soon there's a grande vanilla cream cold brew in her hands and the world doesn't feel so bad for a second.

A convenient alert causes her phone to vibrate in her cardigan pocket. Her suitcase would be eagerly awaiting her return at Carousel J. Following the overhead signs, Avery navigates the extended halls of BWI airport to the baggage claim area.

Lips yearning for the sweet taste of coffee, cream, and artificial sugar, Avery just barely lifts the cup to her lips when a sharp elbow smacks against her own, sending the cup flying. It doesn't happen in a theatrically slow fashion. In fact, the entire ordeal happens so quickly that the perpetrator of this crime is already long gone.

Not feeling particularly confrontational, Avery sighs and swipes a few napkins from Auntie Anne's Pretzels. Bodies avoid her with a rather simplistic grace that the assailant of her coffee seemed to lack. The mess now clean, she crumples the napkins and tosses them into the nearest bin. A hand sanitizing station helps her remove the stickiness from her fingers and suddenly Carousel J is in sight.

People crowd around the belt as if that would somehow magically make their luggage appear faster. It doesn't.

She hangs back, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes. A young woman patiently waits for her bags, a dog with neat cream-colored curls beneath a service vest sitting attentively at her feet while a father tries to keep his small child from disturbing them. He doesn't seem particularly committed, loosely gripping the child's Paw Patrol backpack as he scrunches his face at something on his phone.

"Dog!"

"Yeah buddy, I see it."

"Doggy!"

"Mhm."

And then it's simply more of the same.

Fortunately for the woman, and perhaps the dog too, their luggage escapes from the void and suddenly they're gone. The small child eager waves, screeching at the top of his still developing yet impressively strong lungs.

"BUH-BYE DOGGY!"

"Enough, son."

His voice is not nearly as loud but it's heavy with totality and the boy, unfortunately, knows the tone all too well. His expression droops, bottom lip pressed out as he waves softer this time.

"Buh-bye doggy..."

Suddenly, they're gone too and the claim is quiet again. The silence isn't awkward and the majority of those still waiting seem content. Soon enough, a familiar silver suitcase and gray Adidas duffel make their appearance. Avery picks up everything with ease. She has her spilled coffee to thank for the free hand but the gratitude isn't genuine.

Car keys already in the pocket of her cardigan, she finds the closest exit to the garage, taking the elevator up to the third floor. The blue '18 Honda Civic is still in the same spot, looking no different than it did when she left it five days ago.

Bags hastily shoved in the back, she slides in and wastes no time speeding out of the garage having paid the fees already with a few taps on her phone.

Hopping on the MD-295 towards DC, the trip home comes in at just under thirty minutes thanks to a particularly light bit of traffic and a heavy foot on the gas. Not particularly eager to pay for another grande cup of disappointment, she pulls straight into the parking garage of her apartment building.

Being home in an embracing silence after being surrounded by strangers for the past few days feels like a fever dream. It's not. She's very much alone, very much awake, and likely has a very normal internal body temperature of 98.6.

The bags will remain in the corner of her room for approximately two and half weeks before any official unpacking begins. With the next twenty-four hours void of any real life obligations, and with an oncoming feeling of loneliness beginning to seep into the walls, Avery grabs her phone to search for the same name she always does.

Yogi, better known as Noah.

Her best friend of practically her entire life.
Hopping up onto the barstool, chin resting in her upturned palm, she waits for the ringing to stop. It does.

"Noah...dude, have I got a story f—" And then the line disconnects.

Confusion sweeps her face unabashedly as she attempts to call back again, double checking the number. Everything was still the same. His name in her phone affectionately as Yogi—a nickname with as much history as a middle school textbook.

This time, the phone does not ring.

Calling for a third time seems a little intrusive but under the circumstances it feels warranted. A text comes in instead that leaves Avery just as floored as her spilled vanilla cream cold brew on the probably still sticky tiles of BWI Airport.

Hey, so I don't know if this Noah kid stood you up or something but this definitely isn't his number. I'm already on thin ice as is with my wife and I don't need random girls calling my number. Please don't call or text this number again. Thanks.

Avery blinks once and then again, as she pours over the message at least ten more times and by the eleventh time, she comes to two conclusions:

Something is wrong and...

...she's definitely going to need that coffee.