Waiting for Her at Arrivals
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Summary
I landed at 4:00 AM. The moment my phone regained a signal, a notification from my wife’s Instagram popped up.
It was a photo of a man’s back—broad shoulders, tall frame—wheeling a suitcase through a terminal. The caption read:
“Mission #37: Airport pickup successful. Home safe and sound.”
The timestamp was 3:30 AM.
At 3:30 AM, I had been thirty thousand feet in the air. The plane had hit a pocket of severe turbulence so violent that the oxygen masks had dropped from the ceiling. People were screaming.
