The plane carrying Nate and I took off two and a half hours later than scheduled, so we had to sprint through Chicago, past the WWII planes, past the food and water I promised him. We ran and ran, him laughing at the game and me grimacing at the ridiculousness of it all. We rounded past the food court and the Potbellys with the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies he'd otherwise would have wanted. Finally, finally, I see the B corridor. We run into a bathroom stall. Hurry, hurry, I urge. We have to make this flight. I don't want to spend in the night in airport with a six year old.

Gate B5 is in front of us and they're calling our group. We run into line and onto the plane. Find an open seat, I whisper, keep going. "I want the window," he begs, already forgetting the delay, the rush, the burning lungs.

I collapse on the seat, grateful to have made it, but more grateful for the promise of a soon-to-come cocktail.

We're flying to Texas.