I looked up. A man in a blue airport uniform was frowning down at me. He had a kind face, but his eyes were full of procedures.
“She… she left,” I whispered, the words choking me.
“Lost, then. Okay, that’s fine. We’ll find her.” He reached for his radio.
“I’m not lost,” I said, my voice a little stronger.
“I was left.”
His hand paused on the radio. He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes. Who leaves an eight-year-old at an airport?
“Honey, let’s just go to the office. We’ll make an announcement.”
“She’s on the plane,” I said, pointing at the gate, where the last passengers were disappearing down the jet bridge.
“She’s going to Hawaii. She told me to find my own way home.”
The man’s face changed. The procedural kindness disappeared, replaced by something sharp and serious. He spoke into his radio.
