Set a scene in which something will happen--or in which something has happened.
And so it begins.
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Rows of black leather seats line the side of the room, some facing the windows that reveal the steady parade of planes lazing by under the Portland afternoon overcast. There are never enough seats.
For the lucky child who was spared the Benadryl, this purgatory reminds him of a modern art museum. Adults stare at the wall, engrossed by the Spartan arrangement of Samsung cell phone charging stations and flight information displays. He tried to sleep, but some door alarm is beeping from just far enough away for only the undistracted to hear. His heels are sore. His Nintendo DS is out of battery. He already complained to his mom. Everyone is in silent agony, but nobody wants to admit it.
His eyes drift to the other end of the terminal, where a woman, standing in front of the window, is swinging her arms like the women do in his mother’s exercise videos. The woman has been sitting down and getting back up every few minutes. Other signs of life drift by. Another child locks eyes as she speeds past on an airport car with her dad in a wheelchair. A well-dressed man loses his sandwich lettuce to gravity, but not before trying to catch it on its way down.
A college student who was also watching the lettuce turns to check the time on the ticket counter marquee. He smirks, pitying the blank-faced crowd as he digs into his suitcase like a kid with a better idea.
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