6I snatched the coveralls and yanked them over my legs. They smelled of engine grease. My companion clapped hard hats on both our heads, grabbed the satchel and opened the door to the outside. Minutes later, we were in the front seat of an electric cart, pulling three linked wagons loaded with suitcases.
The cart grumbled around the terminal building, heading toward the array of planes parked beyond Passport Control. The rain was still falling, a cold drizzle that made streaks of darker blue on the coveralls, then quickly moistened all the fabric to the same damp shade. The rumpled collar grew clammy against my neck. My skin itched with the rashy feel of things out of control.
The sky was still navy blue, the winter night unaffected by the scraps of daylight on the horizon. Rain blurred
