SHOUT - Adopted by Lin Manuel Miranda

LIFTOFF

I lose an hour.

I close my eyes to blink, and by the time I open them, I've shown the flight attendant my passport and put my luggage through inspection. I've been talking, that's for sure. Somehow through the grenade trembling in my throat, I assure the customs officer that yes, I have permission to fly, and yes, I have family waiting for me at the airport in Lahore. 

He studies my passport behind his desk. His eyes are sympathetic. "You look a little young to be traveling this far on your own. You sure this passport is up to date?"

He clearly saw the date, though. It's forged, but it's forged well. He runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek and hands me back the passport. "I'll just have to ask you some questions..."

The first wave of doubt is wearing off. The edges of my mind are waking up, sharpening painfully. The officer reads from his clipboard. " 'aight, what's the purpose of your trip?"

"Family. Visiting family," I tell him.

"Yeah, and how long do you intend on staying?"

"A month," I lie. 

He looks up at me without moving his head. "You staying with them, too?"

I nod.

"Anything to declare?"

"Nope."

He waves me off to the metal detectors, where they make me stand with my feet apart and my hands above my head while they scan me. When they're sure I'm clean of guns, knives and drugs, they tell to to step out, gather my things, put my shoes back on. And they direct me to gate 18. 

I take a deep breath and slowly heave my duffel bag through each of the gates. Approximately two billion people are here, hollering flight times and prices and frantic questions at the top of their lungs. I push my way through the swarm until I reach the hallway with a sign reading gates 15-20. My ipod vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and click on the screen. 26 missed texts from Lin, 14 from Vanessa, and a Schoology notification that my English assignment is late.

My legs move. I keep staring at the screen. I should have thrown my ipod on the subway tracks. I don't think there's a tracker, though. Is there a tracker? I read and re-read the notifications and force my legs to move. I must be approaching gate 18, I must be—

WHAM. 

I slam straight into something— someone. I click off my ipod and watch the guy turn around. He glares when he sees me. "Aye, kid, what's your problem?"

Where should I start?

I duck around him and stare straight ahead as I walk. Gate 16... 17... Gate 18. Small, gray room blockaded by 50 passengers and so much luggage, there's isn't enough room for me to sit. I flip my hood up and lean against the wall. I feel my ipod vibrate again. A new crowd of people push their way into the gate even though there's nowhere for them to stand. I suddenly feel like I'm standing in the middle of times square on New Years Eve and sixty thousand people are shouting the countdown at the top of their lungs. Say the alphabet, count to ten, picture a field, a sunny one... no, none of those old tricks work, anymore. I swallow hard and look up above the heads, searching for some air and trying not to panic.

One breathe after the other. There you go, Viddie.

My ipod vibrates again. I grab it from my pocket and turn the power off. A voice comes over the loudspeaker and tells us that the plane has arrived and boarding will begin in fifteen minutes. I tense up as a group of men squeeze past me and wait for their hands to wander where they aren't allowed to touch. They keep their hands to themselves, which is good, because I probably wouldn't have been able to fight them off; I feel it— a gray fog wrapping around me, replacing the oxygen in my lungs and constricting my throat until I suffocate.