“I’ve got a possible… situation. Gate 14. A minor. Unaccompanied.”
It took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of me sitting in a sterile, beige room painted with cheerful, mocking primary colors. Plastic chairs. A teddy bear with one eye missing sitting on a shelf. The room smelled like hand sanitizer and stale coffee.
A woman named Mrs. VGA—I saw the name on her badge—knelt in front of me. She smelled like spearmint gum and the lotion my teacher used.
“Sweetheart, is there anyone else we can call? Any other family members?”
I hesitated. My world had just been reduced to my mother, and my mother had just… evaporated. Mom always said Dad didn’t care. That he was a ghost. A man made of money and empty promises.
