And Nicholas—he took it.
There’s Always Time to Turn Back, But Which Way Is Back?
We are on the road by 6 a.m.
If we drive the most direct way, it would take us just over two hours—but that means tollbooths and cameras that I want to avoid.
So I take the longer way, continuing to hug the coast for as long as possible. Bailey is quiet in the car, but I can feel the intake of breath as we wind our way onto I-280—which takes us close to our familiar stomping grounds—a little too close to Sausalito. A little too close to her time with her father. To the last time she had her father.
I feel it catch in my own throat as we hit the Golden Gate Bridge, a bridge to a world I try not to let myself think about. But it comes crashing in, and I consider turning the car around. I consider telling Bailey this is a mistake—that we need to stick to going back to Santa Cruz. That we need to stick with my plan. Isn’t this crazy, to switch now?
Except that it’s also not crazy.
I turn to Bailey and I meet her eyes and I have faith it’s not crazy. Owen would never lead Bailey into crazy. After all this time, he would only be coming back if we needed him to help ensure the opposite.
Maybe believing that makes me sounds delusional. But it doesn’t matter how it sounds. It doesn’t matter how it sounds or how it looks or what it seems like.
Because that’s the thing about faith. Even if the world decides itlooks crazy, it shows up for you in the moment that you need it most. The moment that you need faith to remind you that you know better.
That I know better.
This is when I keep going.
At 8:55 a.m., we pull into the parking lot at a restaurant in a small office park, half a mile from the Napa County Airport.
We get two large coffees and split a breakfast burrito. We park at the far end of the lot and eat on a bench, facing the morning sun.
At 9:30, we take everything out of the trunk, the duffels and backpacks, and lock the car. For the last time.
Then we start the walk to Napa County Airport.
The road is windy, mostly quiet and flat, and thankfully not very busy. A truck passes by us, a couple of cars. I’m glad that there isn’t much traffic to take notice of us—these two women walking with their bags on their backs, walking over train tracks, hugging the side of the dusty road.
But, even if they do notice us, it’s still the best option. Even if our car isn’t directly traceable to us, we can’t leave it someplace where they might be looking for it. And I can’t risk a taxi driver remembering the two women he dropped off at the small private airport. The two women who fit our description.
We round a corner, and suddenly the airport is visible, fifty feet ahead of us. You could almost miss it. You could almost miss the whole airport if you didn’t know what you were looking for: a small building, a few makeshift bungalows. And, in the distance, a construction site—where they are building out a new airport hub.
“This is it?” Bailey says.
“This is it.”
We walk up to the sky service bungalow, a black gate beside it, leading to the tarmac. But instead of walking into that bungalow, and the small reception area inside, I lead Bailey straight through the open black gate, straight out to the tarmac.
We pass several of the smaller planes, moving wordlessly in the direction of the farthest runway. On the edge of which is the largest plane.
A long-range jet. It’s big enough for twenty people, maybe more. But, apparently, it’s there for just us.
The boarding stairs are down. There are three people standing beneath them. Three people in uniform who I can’t make out just yet.
“Just follow my lead, okay?” I say.
Bailey nods. I can feel that she is nervous, so I take her hand and she lets me.
Then I keep walking us toward that large plane, with purpose, like this is something I’m used to doing. Like I’m familiar with this tarmac, with its rules, with planes waiting just for me.
“Can I help you?”
I hear a voice behind me, stopping me cold. We are a good fifty feet from the plane. I turn around to find a security guard in a golf cart. He is in his sixties in an orange vest with reflective stripes, a gun on his waistband.
