The sense of dread that began with Becky's email pressed Gillian Short deep into her seat as passengers filed past her down the aisle, a line of eye-rubbing yawns and bouncing impatience.

Gillian lifted the clasp on her still-tight seat belt. Her next moves should be simple: stand up, grab her carryall from the overhead bin, and start her trip. That's what everyone else was doing with ease.

But they weren't spending five days with her sister.

A young mother leaned across the aisle as she slid her sleeping infant into the sling across her chest. "Are you okay?"

Gillian adjusted her glasses and sighed. The answer bounced around inside her head. No. I'd rather be anywhere but here. But the words wouldn't come out. What sort of person wasn't excited about a family wedding?

Her.

The young mother slung a bag over her shoulder and grabbed the hand of her patient toddler.

Gillian's impolite silence filled the space where an answer should have gone. She changed the subject — a tried-and-true reflex.

"You have beautiful children. Do you need any help?"

"No, but thanks for offering. Have a great day." She grabbed a tiny backpack with her free hand and took her brood down the aisle.

Gillian shook her head in amazement. I wish I was a mom like that. When the boys were young, just wrangling them into high chairs seemed to require military precision and a week's worth of planning. Flying them anywhere would have been out of the question. Perhaps it was even now. Sure, the boys were older, but just thinking about the havoc they could wreak brought out a cold sweat.

The ratchet in her stomach clicked tighter.

Gillian pulled out her phone. Becky hadn't texted — yet. The siren song of Facebook, a song she could never deny, called to her. A flood of wonderful achievements flew past as she thumbed through holiday photos from afar and quotes designed to inspire her to greatness, ironic hashtags and political insights into how to fix a broken world, and photos of smiling families doing life together. The best of everyone. Facebook asked what was on her mind, a question she never answered with complete truth. Had a great flight, now here for the wedding! Gonna have an amazing time! The self-loathing washed over her the second her finger posted this sculpted thought into life.

The cabin was empty of people and full of stale air. She was stalling. Gillian sighed hard and stood.

Here goes.

After being summoned by her sister's email, she had made it. You simply have to be here for your niece's wedding. Jessica is the first grandchild to marry, the whole family is coming, and goodness knows you haven't seen most of them in a while.

It had been a whirlwind few days, arranging her husband so the boys could cope without Mom for three days and filling the freezer so they wouldn't starve.

She reached into the overhead bin for her large, floral carryall, and the ratchet in her stomach gripped her again. It had tightened the closer she got to her old hometown, and the turbulence hadn't helped. Some time away from the madhouse at home should have brought peace and some relief. Time to step outside an unrelenting schedule to keep up. Time to breathe. Time to enjoy the celebration and the closeness of family. But the whisper arose again in her ear. It had begun with Becky's email and persisted ever since.

You just need to get through it.

David Hawke sprinted to the heart of baggage claim, nestled under a web of steel spokes and polished metal. He skidded into a wall of bodies and chatter as five planes' worth of passengers crowded the baggage carousels.

David swore under his ragged breath. He wasn't in the mood for people getting in his way. Not after what happened last night.

He dodged through the crowd as he scanned each carousel for his flight number. Then, at the carousel farthest from the exit, the screen fizzed and crackled, and his flight number appeared above the static, black belt.

David swept away the beading sweat from his brow. He couldn't face the board as anything but cool. At least he'd have a chauffeured ride to the showdown meeting, his thoughts given clean air to run through the presentation that would show the board just how wrong they were. And the minibar would give him courage. He had given Sisyphus Financial his heart and soul for the last ten years. What more did they want?

His phone was silent. Nothing from Sharon. How could she misunderstand his ultimatum? You need to promise me it's really over.

Sharon was silent then and silent now.

David thumbed through his phone, looking for a text with the details for his arrival. His thumb came up empty. Twelve months ago the board had rolled out the red carpet: a limousine and a full minibar for the most profitable branch manager in the country. He winced. The last twelve months had been tough for business. They'd been tough for a lot of things.

His thumb hovered over a family photo from a happier time, the day Caitlin got her Elsa dress and his small family's obsession with Frozen began. Sharon was smiling — he could carbon-date the picture from that fact alone — but Caitlin was beaming. David's heart still seemed to swell when he thought of how happy he'd made his daughter that day. He'd hunted all over the city for the smallest dress size to turn his own princess into Disney royalty.

The more-familiar hammer beat of stress took over as the reason for his trip shadowed across that happy thought from another time. If he lost his job, Caitlin's smile would fade. How could he let that happen to his six-year-old daughter?

A line of twelve suited men stood in the distance, their jaunty chauffeur's hats perched above a row of gleaming white cards held at their chests. Which one is mine? Probably the big guy with the gleaming white smile.

The carousel, a winding, slumbering beast in black and silver, defied him. Behind the walls engines roared and tires squealed with the internal traffic of an airport. The other carousels were a hive of busyness too. Everyone but him got their suitcases and a release to start their day.

A throat politely cleared behind him. "Excuse me, sir?"

David glanced over his shoulder. A young man in a navy-blue cap and overalls leaned on a gleaming silver baggage cart. A white badge branded one breast: Baggage Services.

"Yes?"

The young man tipped his cap and thick black curly hair threatened to burst free. He rose on the balls of his feet. "I'm the Baggage Handler. Do you need some help with your baggage?"

A stroke of luck. For the first time in a while.

David spun to face him. "Actually, buddy, I need to get out of here in a hurry, so if you could make my suitcase appear, that would be ideal."

The Baggage Handler smiled. "I'm afraid I can't make it appear, sir. But I am available to help you with your baggage when you're ready." His deep-blue eyes sparkled above a kind smile.

The nerves again launched a fresh assault on David. What was the holdup with his suitcase? He needed his sales reports to have any chance of keeping his job. Why couldn't the airline just do their job?

The Baggage Handler again rose on the balls of his feet. "The minute you want any help, you just let me know." He pushed his cart to the other end of the carousel.

What a strange guy.

The...