She nodded. —Like that you can read.
—I’m just reviewing this here list of conjugations. He puffed out his chest. —I happen to be traveling to Pakistan today.
She glanced across the aisle at his high-tops. —I thought you might be traveling to a kickball game in Oakland.
—This look is like American Express, he said, adjusting his cap. —It’s accepted worldwide.
—There’s a lot of places don’t take American Express. She passed him the high-tops and sat where they’d been. —La Tapatía, for example.
—La Tapatía? Decker said, raising his eyebrows. —That taco place back of the Costco?
—Lots of places don’t take it.
—They’ll take it in Karachi, he said as the bus began rolling. —What did you think people wear over there, Sawyer? Turbans and pointy slippers?
—I couldn’t care less.
He frowned at her. —Why’s that?
—Because Karachi’s not the place I want to be.
It was hot on the bus and Decker nodded off quickly, his forehead propped against the greasy glass. She looked past him at outlets and drive-throughs and strip malls and cloverleaf ramps. The light on the hills was the light she knew best, the embalming golden light of California, and it lay thickly over everything she saw. Already looking out at that landscape was like watching footage of some half-forgotten life.
Decker started awake just as they reached the airport. —What time is it?
—We’re all right.
—Did we miss our one o’clocks?
—It’s okay. We can pray when we get out.
The terminal was the last part of America she’d see and she made a point of paying close attention. The guideways, the acoustic tile, the sterility, the equivalence of every point and feature. She’d loved it as a child, seeing her father off to Islamabad or Ankara or Mazar-i-Sharif, and the child that survived in her loved it there still. The most American of places. A luminous blank.
A flight crew hurried past—the genteel blue-eyed pilots, the coquettish attendants—and an usher with a bindi waved them forward with a bow. The scene might have been choreographed for her express instruction: the quick servile gesture, the noblesse oblige. She felt the old childish thrill and did nothing to curb it. It posed no danger anymore. Her eyes were open.
—What are you smiling at, Sawyer?
—I used to come here sometimes.
Decker stopped and adjusted his sneakers. —Tell you what. I’ve never even been inside a plane.
—You’ll like it.
—What does Swiss food even taste like?
—Swiss food?
—We’re taking Swiss Air, right? It’s a sixteen-hour flight. They’ve got to feed us something.
She took his hand. —Let’s go, man of mystery. We’re late for prayers.
They found a small bluish room labeled INTERFAITH CHAPEL past the food court and set their bags in a neat row beside its entrance. A family of Mennonites rose to leave as soon as they came in. A limping old man and his wife and two toddlers. Decker held the door for them. Their dark formal clothing rasped and whispered as they moved. The wife seemed barely older than he was and she smiled at him sweetly as she sauntered out. Decker watched her until she was out of sight.
—I’m not supposed to say this in here, but that old Hasid is one lucky bastard. Did you see the look I just got?
—You’re right.
—Damn straight I’m right. Did you even—
—You’re not supposed to say that in here.
—Okay, Sawyer. My bad. Seriously though—
—And those weren’t Hasids.
Decker sucked in a breath. —I’m getting a tater tot kind of smell. Tortilla chips maybe. I’m guessing from the Taco Bell next door.
—Shut up and help me move these chairs around.
They cleared a space at the front of the room and laid their prayer mats on the stain-resistant carpet and cleansed themselves with water from a bottle. Decker’s prayer mat matched his tracksuit and his sneakers. Aden watched him for a moment, then shifted slightly to the left.
—How do you know that’s east, Sawyer? There’s no windows in here.
—It’s east.
He nodded dubiously. —We’re praying at the food court, basically.
—I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Decker. I’m going to go ahead and say the prayer we missed. What you decide to do is totally your call. Maybe your Mennonite’s waiting at the Taco Bell. Maybe you guys can split a quesarito scrambler.
—Is that what you think she was? A Mennonite?
She gave him no answer. Eventually he kicked off his high-tops and knelt next to her.
—That’s better, said Aden, prostrating herself.
—So long as you’re happy. I think this is south.
When they came out of the chapel their luggage was gone. They stood blinking wordlessly down at the carpet, listening to the crackle and hiss of the PA. She felt no panic, only a coldness mustering under her ribs. Her passport and visa had been in her duffel.
—Those motherfuckers, said Decker. —We were praying, for shit’s sake.
—It’s all right. It’s all right. We just need to find security. They can’t be far.
Decker let out a groan. —I bet it’s illegal, leaving bags around like that. Do you think they’ll—
—No I don’t. We were stupid, that’s all. I was stupid.
Lost Baggage was in another terminal altogether and by the time they’d found it both their shirts were dark with sweat. Its foyer was the same jaundiced blue as the chapel. The guard at the window knew what they’d come for before they said a word. Their passports lay facedown on the countertop in front of him.
—You kids might as well take it easy. No one’s flying anywhere today.
They waited for him to go on, wavering slightly in place, struggling to master their breathing. The guard looked down at them from on high, remote and unmoved, like a judge at some inconsequential trial. He took off his glasses and began to clean them with a wrinkled handkerchief. He seemed to consider the matter resolved.
—I’m not sure I understand you, sir, said Aden.
—Leaving two unmarked black duffel bags in the busiest part of the international terminal, right outside of the chapel. And a backpack. The guard shook his head. —Right next to the food court, for Jesus’ sake. Neither of you been in an airport before?
—I’ve been to this airport eighteen times, sir, not counting today. With my family. We live in Santa Rosa.
The guard squinted down at her passport for a time. —Aden Grace Sawyer, he said thoughtfully.
—That’s right.
—You’ve cut your hair since this passport was issued, Miss Sawyer.
—So what? said Decker.
—I wouldn’t of recognized you, the guard went on. —You look like a boy.
—We’re students, said Decker before she could answer. —We’re on our way to Pakistan for school.
The