Chapter 5

Henry looks around; at the racks of burgers under warmers behind him, at the no-slip mats he has to move to mop the floor, at the counter between him and the bulldog. He shrugs a yes.

“Do…you?” he ventures. Henry doesn’t see the green plastic YVR photo ID badge that airport employees wear—that he’s wearing—but that doesn’t mean it’s not in a pocket.

“Me?” the bulldog asks, swiveling his own head around the food court. “No,” he says. “My flight, last night, um…canceled.”

Hence yesterday’s suit, Henry figures.

“Oh,” Henry says. “Sorry. That sucks.”

The bulldog gives Henry a thorough once-over. “Kinda,” he says. There’s that tongue again. “Might not be all bad.”

Henry grins. “Where you going?”

“Singapore.”

“Wow,” Henry says. “That’s a late flight, right?”

The bulldog nods. “Eleven-something…”

It’s barely three o’clock. “That sucks,” Henry says again.

The bulldog gives Henry another once-over, another “kinda.”