“Good,” Cornelius said. “And please stop calling me sir. Master will suffice.”

Meng flashed his badge, bypassing security, and walked down the concourse toward the gate where April would be arriving. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes.

Coffee. Coffee would be good. Coffee would be amazing. He was already beat, and this long day wasn’t over yet. He needed something to wake him up, keep him sharp. He got in the line at Starbucks. It was a few people deeper than he was hoping. He wanted to be at the gate fifteen minutes early. Ten minutes would have to suffice. The girl in front of him finally got to the register. She had a large order, she said, pulling out a notebook. Meng looked at the time. Another minute and he would have to bail.

Six Frappuccinos later, Meng ordered. A coffee. Just coffee. Nothing fancy. Just the strong stuff. He took a sip—nearly scorching his lips—and stole a glace at the time as he jogged toward the gate. He was cutting it close. But he should be fine.

Meng reached the gate and looked around. No one was there. Shouldn’t there be people getting ready for the plane to arrive?

“Delayed,” a business traveler said, seeing the confused expression on his face.

“Thanks,” Meng said, his heart recovering. “How long is the delay?”

“An hour.” The businessman returned to his Wall Street Journal.

Meng sipped gingerly at the piping-hot brew—he really had burned his lips, hadn’t he?—and considered his next move. Should he call Cornelius? Definitely not. Buy a magazine? Go back to Starbucks for a sandwich? He hated idle time, hated not knowing exactly what he should do next.

He walked over to the arrival/departure board and checked April’s flight. ARRIVED, it said. Meng drank deeply from his paper cup, burning the entire length of his throat. He swore, but not from the pain. He didn’t even feel the pain. He raced back to the gate.

“You said the flight was delayed!” Meng scolded the businessman, pulling down the newspaper to expose his guilty face.

“It is!” the businessman said, infuriated.

“The flight from DC?”

“No, the flight to Miami!”

Meng nearly threw his coffee in the businessman’s face. Sheer panic prevented him. He ran back to the arrival/departure board and checked the gate number for April’s flight. It had been changed. When? When had it been changed? Why did they do things like that without warning?

He paced, a tiger in a cage. She could have just walked right by him, while he was in line, for what? Coffee? He slammed his cup into a trash can, which was full. The cup didn’t make it past the lid, broke open, and splashed him on the chest.

He was losing it.

Lost it.

Yelled.

Screamed like a five-year-old.