I hadn’t planned on spending half my afternoon in the international terminal, but a delayed flight and a dead phone have a way of rearranging priorities. I sat near a window overlooking the runway, watching rain smear the glass in long, tired streaks. People bustled around with hurried steps and frustrated mutters, everyone eager to get somewhere else.
I’d been in airports enough times to know that waiting brings out the worst in most people, myself included. But then something cut sharply through the haze of boredom, a little boy, wandering alone. I noticed him first because he looked so out of place.
While most children stuck close to their parents, tugging on sleeves or holding hands, this one drifted through the crowds like a paper boat pushed around by strong currents. He couldn’t have been more than seven. His dark hair was rumpled, his cheeks blotchy as if he had been crying earlier, and he clutched a small blue backpack to his chest like it contained every reason he had left to be brave.
