The guy next to me has apparently finished the entire Steven James novel he started before takeoff. There’s an in-flight magazine on the tray in front of me, open to the crossword in the back, a pen resting in the fold. But what catches my eye is not the magazine itself, but the smattering of Ts scattered across the page.

No, not Ts, with their thin middles and thicker ends. Tao crosses.

That, and a drawing of some kind of dog—a German shepherd, maybe—inside a circle.

I slide the magazine closer. What the heck?

“Excuse me,” I say to the man beside me, offering him the pen. “Is this yours?”

“Yes, thank you.” He slips it in his pocket. I wait several minutes and then tear out the page, wad it up, and drop it in the melted ice of my drink just in time to hand it to the flight attendant upon landing.

On the other side of customs, I make my way through Amsterdam’s airy Schiphol airport, past duty-free stores, open eateries, the casino. It’s early morning, the terminal bustling with the promise of a new day. But I’m not taking in the neat little sandwiches in the café cases, the tulips with their easy-carry boxes, the stores selling postcards of the famous Red-Light District. I’m looking for the hat obscuring that honey-dark hair, coffee on the brain.

My phone rings, and I glance around, full panorama.

“Hi,” he says.

A half hour into the next flight, I make my way back to the empty galley. This time he’s waiting for me. He pulls me toward the window, arms winding around my waist, mouth already on mine.

*  *  *

By the time we lay over in Munich, pass through the chaos that is Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, and land in the seaport of Trieste, I am exhausted, strangely elated, and thoroughly distracted.

Outside the Trieste airport, which seems downright tiny compared to the ant farms of Amsterdam and Rome, Luka catches me by the hand.

“Quickly,” he says, hailing a cab ahead of the line. I slide across the seat as Luka leans forward to say something to the driver. All I catch is “autobus” and what I assume to be something like “hurry.” He passes the man a fifty-dollar bill, and the car takes off with a screech.

Luka glances back. I follow his gaze to the broad terminal doors in time to see someone rush through a clot of passengers, knocking the luggage from several hands.

Luka talks to the driver, who nods abruptly several times, and eventually—after some lengthier explanation from Luka—gives in to a chuckle.

When Luka sits back and winds his fingers around mine, I say, “What was that all about?”