It was a bumpy landing as the wheels skidded on the runway and the crosswinds tore at the plane’s wide wings; without a seat or seat belt to hold him in place, David was buffeted from one wall to the other. But with one invisible hand, he made sure he kept the wreath on his brow. His head ached from its grip, but now was no time to be discovered and hauled off to airport security as an undocumented passenger.
“S’il vous pla?t séjour posé jusqu’à ce que nous soyons arrivés à la porte,” the intercom announced, and the few impatient passengers who had already tried to retrieve bags from the overhead compartments dutifully sat back down. David used the opportunity to slink silently up the aisle and position himself directly behind the main hatchway. Getting the ramp in place created another delay, but as soon as the door was thrown back, David breezed past the flight attendant, who seemed to sense his presence somehow and put a worried hand to the base of her throat, before skirting a waiting wheelchair, running up the ramp, and out into the terminal.
Following the signs for Customs, David hurried along the endless corridors and escalators, and though a luggage cart was trundled over his foot and a baby carriage was shoved into his shin, he was able to pass through the automated doors without trouble by following close on the heels of a bulky businessman.
At the Customs desks, David looked around to see which officer was already occupied riffling through someone’s luggage, then shimmied past the girl whose guitar case was being given the once-over—“Yeah, I packed it myself,” she was reciting, “and it hasn’t been out of my sight”—and then raced down the concourse, past the big plate-glass windows where people were waiting to spot their visitors, and out toward the taxi stands.
The line was interminable, passengers huddled against the biting wind, stamping their feet to keep warm as the cabs were slowly motioned forward by the dispatchers, loaded up, and sent on their way.
But David had no time to spare on this, and renting a car would take even longer.
Across several lanes, in the section reserved for unloading private car service clients, he saw a maroon Lincoln parked, and the driver—a young guy with a soul patch—was helping an elderly couple to wrestle their bags onto a trolley. David loped across the lanes, dodging the cars that of course could not even see him, and while the driver was settling up, he slipped into the backseat and took off the garland.
For a second or two, as nothing happened, he feared he’d done himself some irreparable harm. But then, he felt a tingling in his toes, the same feeling he’d get when he’d been out skating too long and the blood had slowly started to return. His boots reappeared, drumming on the floor of the car. Then the sensation coursed up his legs, and they, too, gradually became visible.
But the driver got in sooner than David had expected, jumping into the seat to count his bills.
David prayed he wouldn’t look into the rearview mirror yet.
Reaching for the radio mike, he said, “Car 6, calling in.”
“Hey, Zach.”
“I’ve just made the drop-off at Air France.”
David felt the rippling sensation moving up his torso. Glancing down, he saw his coat coming into view, and then his chest. His arms prickled, as if each hair was standing on end, and he flexed the muscles gratefully.
“You got another pickup for me?” Zach asked.
“Looks like it,” the dispatcher replied. “Alitalia.”
“Cancel that,” David interrupted, and the driver whipped around in his seat. David hoped that the crown of his head wasn’t still missing.
“What the hell?” the driver said, dropping the mike. “Where’d you come from?”
David held up a fistful of bills. “Do it, and they’re all yours.”
Zach looked very confused.
“Hey, Zach,” the radio dispatcher said, “let me give you the name.”
“Tell ’em you’re busy,” David urged.
“Those are euros,” the driver mumbled to David.
“Zach, you still there?”
“True,” David said. “That means they’re worth more than dollars.” He leaned forward and handed over the whole wad of them.
“I do know that,” Zach said, as he thumbed through the bills. “I’m in grad school.”
“Then you can figure out how to get to Evanston hospital.”
Satisfied with the windfall, Zach pleaded engine trouble over the radio, then shut off the mike for the breakneck trip to the suburbs.