![]() “So, what time do you get in?” Wren finally asks, giving the perpetual brown scruff on his chin a scratch. They exchange pleasantries, as if this is just any other passenger delivery, before the man shuttles my things away. Wren returns and settles the hefty red bag on the asphalt, just as a grounds worker swings by to collect my belongings. If I don’t, I’ll quickly be overwhelmed by the pain of disappointment and impending loss, and I won’t be able to go through with this. ![]() I quietly watch, huddled in my plush, down-filled coat against the icy wind, fiercely holding onto the resentment I’ve been carrying for months. He clasps his callused hands together and blows into them as he rushes back out to the tarmac, shoulders curled inward, to where the Cessna that delivered us here awaits its hour-long flight home. I’ll go and get that,” he says, dropping the cigarette to the snowy ground and crushing it with his boot. ![]() “And the diaper bag.” I inhale the musky odor. ![]() Wren sets the two navy suitcases next to the stroller and then reaches for the cigarette precariously perched between his lips, taking a long, slow drag. ![]()
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