Southwest Flight 1532.

I flipped through the final book, fanning all the pages of A Severe Mercy, scared of what I'd find. Back and forth, back and forth, I flipped it, looking at nothing, hoping no one would notice my flushed face and red eyes, and if they did, they'd attribute it to airport nerves suppressed by whiskey, not the familiar feel of abandonment. It shouldn't be a big deal. Airports, boarding passes, and canceled plans were part of my childhood. This job in California would take me far away from familiar airports and disappointments. The power was returned to me because no one could abandon me if I weren't around.

I was foolish to accept Jesse's promise to drop me off at the airport, knowing that the only thing promised in the military was unpredictability. The 20-minute Uber ride in the back of a Tesla felt like every missed father-daughter dance, soccer game, and birthday. I wanted to be mad. I should be mad thinking about what my father did, the physical stamp he left on his beloved books, and the emotional stamp on the women in the town he idolized. I wouldn't be here without those stamps, fighting familiar tears in a familiar airport. I used to have hope. I would look up from the punch bowl at the dance or the bleacher where I was benched and believed I'd see my dad walking through the door or sitting in the stands. I used to open my presents slowly, the ones that said "From dad" in my mom's handwriting, believing that if I took long enough, it would give him time to run through the front door. But he never did. 

I stopped fanning the pages long enough to see a young girl, maybe 12 years old, walking towards me with a backpack that weighed more than her and a bouncy blonde ponytail pulled tight below her hat. Her only travel partner was a small stuffed bear tucked under her arm.

"Is anyone sitting here?" her voice was shaking. Her bear was dressed in a military uniform; the fur was matted with what could only be old tears, and the outfit was fraying.

"Just you." I offered the best fake smile I could while silently sucking in the last remaining sniffles. She accepted the seat with an exaggerated smile and bright brown eyes glistening with fresh tears. I returned to my book, reading nothing, and she pulled at the loose strings on her bear's uniform. I could feel her observing me, maybe recognizing something like I did in her.   

"I'm Amelia, like Earhart." The introduction sounded rehearsed. Her cheeriness sounded like she wanted to make conversation when all I wanted to do was hide. "My dad really likes planes." She offered information I didn't ask. I remember wishing strangers would ask me questions, any excuse to work my dad into conversation, but I gave up on that a while ago.

I attempted to play her game, omitting the part where I could say mine liked boats. "I'm Savannah, like the city." I flashed the words on my hat, hoping she could interpret what I didn't want to say but offering some solace that I understood she was trying to be brave. She squeezed her bear a little tighter.

"Do you ever get sick of it?" Amelia asked, her eyes following a young family, a daughter between two parents, the mom pulling her Frozen-themed carry-on behind her. I wondered if I ever looked like that, digging for any memory of where we would be together as a family, let alone an airport. But you can't conjure a memory that never happened.  She put her head back down. 

"I trained myself a long time ago not to look up." I met her gaze, both of us half-hidden under our hats. 

"Do you ever get sick of it?" She said more to the floor than she did to me. The cheeriness she had just minutes ago was gone. 

"Which part?" I forced a sarcastic laugh, which was the final confirmation that we were living the same life and part of the same family.

"This." she gestured towards the crowds of people at the gate but quickly put her head back down. I didn't respond because I would have no consolation to give. I could tell she was looking for assurance, like, - It's not so bad! - but I couldn't force it. I started being bitter a while ago and stopped being okay when I needed to start being okay for everyone else. 

A board-sounding attendant over the speaker system broke the silence between us. We are going to begin boarding. This is Southwest flight 1532, direct to Baltimore continuing on to Burbank. 

Amelia and I looked at each other; we shared the similar hope that if we looked anywhere but at each other, the reality that no knight in shining armor, no safe person in a uniform, would come running towards our gate. 

She took a deep breath, being okay for the both of us. "I'll look up if you will, too."