I cry for one hour and sixteen minutes—the entire length of the flight to Los Angeles. The passengers across the aisle request to move. A little kid in a Lakers cap asks his mom, “What’s wrong with her?” on the way to the bathroom. Maria keeps passing me tissues and making me sip water. But she’s no help. The flight attendant looks like she’s ten years older by the time we land.

“Okay, listen.” Maria kneels in front of me with her beige knees on the dirty floor of the terminal. My hair is dripping around the edges from the water I splashed on my face in the bathroom. “We need a game plan.”

“I can’t do it.” I don’t cry. There’s nothing left but a wet hiccup. People are rushing past us, dragging kids and rolling bags. They all look so certain of where they’re going.

“Yes. You can. You are stronger than you think.” She says it with such sureness. The kind of sure you can only be when you barely know someone. “Tell me what triggered it. You looked all right just before takeoff.”

“I was okay when she was singing. But then the engines were so loud, I…” I can’t finish it. I can’t even think about it again.

Maria snaps her fingers and I jump. Everything’s making me jump today. “That’s it. The music. We need something loud enough to drown out the noise.” She stands and looks around and then leads me to a gift shop selling metal water bottles that cost fifty dollars and chocolate truffles with the Hollywood Hills on them. Is this what LA is like? Could Mom and I have even afforded water in this city? Did Mom know what she was getting us into? It’s still Friday. Today, a man named Howie and his wife will wait for a girl named Lou who will never show up. And then they will forget she ever existed.

“Okay,” Maria says, coming out of the shop and crooking her finger. “You follow me.” We wind our way through the terminal until we end up at a little vending machine. I expect to see Fritos and Snickers. But instead it’s filled with black boxes. She swipes her credit card and hits F-10.

We stand side by side and watch a black box make its way across and down and out into Maria’s waiting hand.

“Here.”

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

I peel off the clear sticker and open the box. Inside is a tiny iPod and headphones. I look up at her and then back at the most expensive vending machine I have ever seen.

“I can’t afford this.”

“Consider it a loan.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ We don’t have a lot of time before our next flight. Let’s get you set up.”