The loudspeaker fades with a dry crackle. Boarding has been delayed.
I swivel the postcard rack. Nothing looks quite right.
And it's hard to believe that I'm in Santiago--in the airport, anyway--and I had no way to reach Sevario, to let him know.
Don't be silly, I remind myself. He has a job.
But would a postcard be good? Something to pass the time. My sweater feels hot and itchy.
I hate to travel. I hate to travel alone. And I'm alone.