I laugh a little, because I’m pretty sure she’s not old enough to get a car. And I doubt there will be cars available. Outside, I see the barest wisps of flurries. I’m going to go out on a limb and say canceling our flight isn’t necessary. Heck, delaying our flight seems over the top. Harper marches on, all steely determination and clicking patent leather pumps.

She pauses, turning back to me. “You should come. If you want. I can drop you in Pittsburgh.”

Yeah. I’m pretty sure optimism can only take you so far. I smile and shake my head. “I should probably take my chances in line. I’ve got to figure out what I’m doing.”

“Well…” Harper pauses like she might argue, and then shakes her head. “Text me about CalArts. And best of luck getting home!”

She heads down the escalator, followed by a broad-shouldered guy with dark hair and a family with three young children. Near me, several airport staff members are moving folding cots into the hallway. One of them is watching over the work, a walkie-talkie to her ear. The TVs overhead look similarly ominous, one weather forecast displaying the word Blizzurricane in shimmering type.

My heart sinks. I don’t need to talk to anyone to know what’s happening here. Weary travelers. Tangles of charging cables. Passengers sleeping under suit coats. Cots being moved into the waiting areas. I spot the Arrivals and Departures sign on a nearby wall but I don’t bother getting close. There’s no point in checking for Pittsburgh or possible alternate flights. Every flight has the same status. Canceled.

I can’t get home.

The thought is a needle of panic to the base of my throat. It’s not possible. I have to get home. She needs me. She needs me to make her laugh and get her to watch trashy TV. I can distract her from the fact that Phoebe died on Christmas. But not if I’m not home.

I start a dozen text messages that I delete just as fast. There’s no way to text her any of this. No careful framing is going to keep this news from reducing her to a nervous wreck.

Finally, I give up and call my stepfather, Daniel. Daniel, a soft-spoken, steady accountant who is the antithesis of my compact, high-energy father in every way, answers on the second ring. Because he always answers on the second ring.

“Mira,” he says after the slightest hesitation. “Merry Christmas.”

“Well, Christmas Eve,” I say. “And it’s less than merry. I need you to help me break the news to Mom that I’m stuck at the airport. Like overnight stuck.”

“You’re stuck at the airport? Do you need help?”