Reluctantly, you agree.


"Here." He takes off his sweatshirt, which is light gray, and you switch wit him. He turns the Braves one inside out so the logo isn't visible, since they've seen it. You switch bags. He has a carryon, and he unzips it and yanks out a scarf his grandmother just gave him as a Christmas present. You loop it around your face.  


When the tram slows at C, you look out the windows. Two of them are at the edge of the crowd, about ten feet away. There are about seven tram doors opening.


"He's here," you mutter.


"Too close for us to go?"


Dang, it would be easy to say yes. But you don't. "No, we can probably make it."


He puts his arm around you, and you put the hood up, making sure none of your hair is visible. You begin walking, heads turned toward each other.


"We're deep in conversation right now," you say.


"Yes," says Dmitri. "And we're not walking too fast."


"Because we're so absorbed in our deep conversation."


A businessman barrels past you, giving you a look like you're both idiots. He lets his overly large carryon run over Dmitri's foot.


But no slappy-slap-slap.


You make it to the escalator. You make it up the escalator. You make it to terminal C, and duck into a bookstore. There is a closed sandwich stand, and you duck behind the counter and sink onto the sticky tile floor.


"So...." says Dmitri. "You're just going to hang out here for the next two and a half hours?"


You nod. Compared to being violently murdered, it sounds like heaven.


About half an hour before your flight starts boarding, Dmitri goes to get you guys something to eat. When he comes back with Qdoba, he says, "the strangest thing happened. I just got a notification on my phone that my flight is canceled, and I'm rerouted through La Guardia. So I'm on your flight. Weird, huh?"


A shiver of suspicion runs through you. "Yeah, weird," you say, unwrapping your burrito.


Almost as weird as running into him in the first place.


You put down the burrito. You don't trust Dmitri.


Actually, you do--you trust the weird little kid you met at camp. You're just not sure if this guy sitting with you on this disgusting floor is actually him. This whole crazy day has been like something out of a twisted fairy tale, and isn't there something in fairy tales about not taking food from strangers?


At the same time, you skipped breakfast this morning. You're so hungry you're slightly dizzy, even sitting down. You doubt you'll be able to run or think at your best if you don't get some nourishment.


Should you eat or not?

You stuff the burrito in a napkin.

You manage to hide the burrito in your napkin. The edges of your vision blur, and your knees are wobbly, but at least you're safe.


You and Dmitri decide that the best way to get on the plane is for you to wait until the line is ending and then just run. He will stand near enough to see the gate and then text you when it's time.


When he texts you, you begin running. No goblins on either side of you. Your hunger disappears--nothing matters except getting on the plane.


They're behind the desk.


Actually, they're ON the desk. Waiting. Watching. Two of them.


The ticket agent is laughing, chiding that you aren't that late.


The ink of your printed-out ticket stains your sweaty hand. You slow down, almost to a stop. Maybe you should miss the plane. If you run fast, maybe you can lose them for long enough to get a cab to the bus station.


But they didn't start chasing you until you got into this Godforsaken airport. Isn't it logical, then, that maybe they'll stop chasing you once you board?


Look at you, trying to apply logic to a situation that's clearly insane. Yeah, that's a real productive use of your time.


They see you. They aren't coming toward you--but then, why should they? You're going straight to them.


What do you do?