“Completely.” At two in the morning, Claire slept for forty minutes with her head on Jack’s shoulder. He did not move, even when his arm went numb. At three, they shared a stale cinnamon roll from a vending machine and agreed it tasted like insulation.
At four-fifteen, Gate 3 came alive. The relief flight remained scheduled.
Claire washed her face in the restroom, reapplied lipstick with hands that trembled slightly, and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. Her hair had flattened at one side. Her eye makeup had softened around the edges. She also looked more like herself than she had in months.
When she returned, Jack was holding two paper cups of terrible coffee. “Number seven,” he said. “Number twenty-four.” “Cruel.”
They walked together to the gate. The first fifteen standby passengers were called quickly. Then two families were added from medical-priority lists. Claire stood.
Jack smiled at her. “Go.” She didn’t. “Claire.”
“If your number clears—” “If it clears, I’ll get on.” “Promise?” “Yes.”
The agent called number seven. Claire picked up her suitcase. Jack took the handle from her, rolled it to the boarding point, and handed it back. The moment felt absurdly final for two people who had known one another less than fourteen hours.