The Girl that vanished

CHAPTER FIVE

I should have taken a shower before getting on the plane from Des Moines.

Usually, that's the last thing I do before checking out of a hotel and heading

home. This time I decided to shave that out of my schedule in favor of hiding

under the comforter and trying to maintain my grasp on sleep that, just as I

predicted, finally caught up to me. Staying asleep meant I didn't have to think

about the disappointing few days I spent in Iowa. But it also means I feel

grimy, stuffed in the window seat of the economy airline gliding toward

the ground. Planes already tend to leave me feeling a little germ-coated. It's

an inevitability when traveling in such a close space with a couple hundred

other people.

Hours in a plane leave me feeling uncomfortable on a good day. Without a

shower, I just feel sticky. The bounce of the wheels on the tarmac is a relief, and

I pry my hand away from the armrest. I'm not a fan of landings. landings. The

plane glides toward the gate, and I reach for my bag where I shoved it beneath

the seat in front of me. As soon as the plane stops, the other passengers

stream out of their seat and into the narrow aisle. There's always

something fascinating about watching people try to hurry out of a plane.

It never  works. No matter how forcefully they wedge themselves into the

rush squeezing out of the single door, their feet will likely hit airport carpet at

the exact same moment they would have if they had just waited for the

chaos to end and walked out calmly.

And yet, I do it too.

Bumped back and forth by the people in front and behind me, I perform

      the plane shuffle out through the accordion tube and finally make

       it into the terminal. Now to get my suitcase and get home. I'm halfway

        down the steps when I notice my name scrawled on a white sign held up

        in front of a man's face. It might have startled me if I didn't know the rest

       of the body attached to that unseen face. It's Eric. He's my official ride to

       the airport whenever I travel, and if he has the chance when I get back,

he picks me up.

This is at least the tenth time I've seen a variation of that sign. I'm

sure people think there's some sort of hilarious or touching story connected

to why he always holds up my name when I deplane and come down the stairs

toward him, but there's not. He did it the first time he picked me up, and it just

never changed.