“Final boarding call for Pioneer-Blue, flight 105.”
Shit.
The gate check-in counter is in sight. I dash to it like I’m in an Olympic relay, ticket in hand. With the other hand, I clutch the duffel bag slung over my shoulder to keep it from clobbering me as I run.
I weave my way around other passengers, milling about during their layovers or filing to their own gates, and I race past emergency workers trying to revive Ethan. He’s lying on the floor of the airport, muddied and limp.
Ahead, and just to my left, a little boy is watching. He looks small and scared. There are grass stains on his jeans. A bike is laying on the ground next to him.
“Last call for flight 105.”
“I’m here,” I say, shoving the ticket in front of the worker.
She radios to the flight crew and sends me down
