Eileen, still processing the family earthquake that had barely been avoided on her driveway this morning, nodded and kept walking through the door, down the jet bridge, and toward her plane.

The flight attendant near the door was busy with a first-class passenger, threading a coat hanger through the arms of his sport coat. Eileen didn’t want any more greetings or smiles. Just her seat, a drink—and eventually, when she was ready, Dave’s note.

Once she got to San Francisco, Clare would know what to do about all—

Eileen stopped dead in the middle of first class. Clare wouldn’t know anything. Like a bucket of ice water, the reason why she was even on this flight shocked her from her train of thought. The weight of loss crushed against her chest.

“Excuse me?” the woman behind her asked. “Are you here? My seat’s farther back.”

Eileen shook her head and kept walking past the divider separating first from economy class. Her rolling suitcase caught on the arms of the seats every few rows, and she yanked it hard to keep it moving. She looked up at the row numbers and letters running the length of the overhead bins. She had no idea what her seat number was.

Where was her boarding pass? She’d just had it in her now-empty hand. Eileen tried to keep moving down the crowded aisle while reaching into the side pocket of her yoga pants. Her suitcase caught on another armrest while her tote slid off her shoulder, down her arm, and against the head of the man sitting in 27D.

“What the hell!” the man said, shoving her bag away and back at Eileen. “Watch it!”

“Oh my God… I’m so sorry,” she said to him, clutching her offensive bag to her body. “It slipped. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” She leaned in to touch his head.

The man jerked back and raised his hand to block her instincts to mother. “I’m fine. Fine,” he spat, and turned away from her and toward the woman sitting next to him, who was also glaring at Eileen.

Eileen stood up straight and took a deep breath before continuing toward the back of the airplane, trying her best to ignore the smattering of other passengers who were stealing furtive looks at the frazzled woman causing a scene.

She glanced up at the row numbers again, still with no idea where she needed to be but probably long past her seat, too afraid now to again stop the train of passengers intent on riding her ass.

At the very back, standing in the last row, a young male flight attendant with a kind face stood with both arms over his head in a V, his palms resting flat against the overhead bins. He was poised, professional and would know how to help her find her way to her seat. All she needed was to get to him.