The afternoon sun beat down on the highway, baking the asphalt.

Inside the terminal, the air conditioning was blasting, smelling of jet fuel and floor wax.

We walked toward the international arrivals lobby.

A crowd of families stood behind the black metal stanchions, some holding handmade signs and balloons.

Two uniformed airport police officers were already standing near the exit doors where passengers emerged from customs.

Harris met us near the baggage claim carousels.

“They just landed,” Harris said, looking at his watch. “They are clearing passport control now.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I gripped the cold metal rail of the stanchion.

“Are you okay?” Arthur whispered, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“I am,” I said, though my breath was short.

The sliding glass doors of the customs exit slid open.

A stream of passengers began to trickle out, carrying duffel bags and rolling luggage.

They were tan, laughing, wearing shorts and sandals.

Then, I saw them.

Patricia came first, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized designer sunglasses.