As we made our way past the ticket counter the automatic doors whooshed open, nearly sweeping us away in a blast of icy air. It was January in Wisconsin, which means one thing: cold. The kind of cold that hurt the skin, just breathing made people cough. I just kept thinking sun, sand, and above all else: warmth. As we zigged and zagged our way through the unending maze of bodies, we kept looking down at the flight information in my hands.

“Gate B-17, I’m sure of it” I said, none too convincingly apparently, for he kept reading aloud the gates and their destinations.

We reached a fairly quiet section of the airport, and all the sounds became subdued. It had the feel of a library to it: old, peaceful, and

Some topics in this essay:
B-17 I’m, Halfway Miles, January Wisconsin, pilot intercom, seventeen suitcases,