I start running. People and their suitcases are standing around all over the departure hall. They can see I’m in a hurry, but hardly anyone gets out of my way. My inner thigh muscles are still complaining after training on Friday. One last coordination and speed workout with the girls in my club.You’ll love it, Emmi. I was on the Dunbridge athletics team too.I hear Mum’s voice in my head and pray that she’s right.
My legs are like lead. It’s hard work pushing two suitcases, and I can feel a slight stitch in my side. It’s harder than normal to pick up my feet, but I don’t stop. I never stop before I’ve crossed the finish line. It’s the only thing I ever really persist at. Keep on running, even when I’m almost puking with exhaustion. Keep on running, keep on running, no matter where I’m headed. My dad on the regional express train, in a red carriage, speeding up, faster and faster as I run faster and faster after him. But never fast enough.
Apparently, I look desperate enough that the airline staff open a new window, and I heave my first suitcase onto the belt. The woman behind the counter raises an eyebrow at the number on the digital display but slaps on the sticky label without a word. Maybe she’ll have pity on me. Ihopeshe’ll have pity on me.
“You’ll have to hurry—the gate is closing, but I’ll let my colleagues know you’re on your way.”
“Thank you,” I gasp, reaching for my documents, then turn and do the one thing I could manage in my sleep.
I run, as fast as I can.
2
Henry
I hate running.
Hate it, hate it, hate it.
It’s stressful enough even when you’re not trying to race from one end of this gigantic airport to the other after a delayed ten-hour flight. Now I remember why I normally avoid having to transfer in Frankfurt: an hour and a half’s transit time is never long enough. Least of all if your flight gets delayed. I ought to write it out somewhere in big fat letters as a reminder next time I book my return flight from Nairobi to Edinburgh.
“Excuse me, sorry...” For fuck’s sake, why’s it so hard to stick to the stand-on-the-right-and-walk-on-the-left rule on these endless conveyor belts? “Connecting flight, sorry.”
I barge into elbows and ignore the tightness in my chest. It’s so embarrassing that I can’t run even for five minutes without feeling like I’m about to have an asthma attack. The rucksack on my back suddenly weighs a ton, and my hoodie is way too thick, but obviously I didn’t realize that until earlier when I was jammed in with all the other passengers in the cramped aisle ofthe Boeing, waiting to disembark. I wish I could stop and pull it off, but one, I haven’t got time, and two, I’m past caring.
I stumble as I set foot on solid ground at the end of the moving walkway. My body wants to carry on, my muscles are barely capable of absorbing the sudden deceleration, and God, I have to start running more often—I’m so unfit! Maybe I ought to follow Theo’s example. My older brother used to do his revision on the treadmills in the school gym.The brain takes in new information much quicker when you’re moving, Henry; it’s scientifically proven.And it’s scientifically proven that my heart is going to jump out of my chest any moment if I don’t slow down and...
Hang on. Gate B20.B.
I stop so abruptly that a wave of German-sounding swear words washes over me. My pulse is pounding in my ears again as I stare at the sign above me. Maybe my brain isn’t getting enough blood and I’m hallucinating. Or maybe that actually says “Gates C–D.”
Fuck. Where did I go wrong? Why is my connecting gate always at the far end of the airport, wherever I’m transferring, and why—
The second I turn around—without looking—there’s a dull thud. That doesn’t sound good. And it doesn’t feel good either. I’d forgotten the way all the air gets crushed out of your lungs when someone runs into you with their full weight. I land on the slippery tiles between a girl’s knees. One of my rucksack straps flies open and the contents scatter over the floor in front of us. Water bottle, headphones, chewing gum, the bag of mini pretzels from the other plane, phone charger, my passport. But Idon’t see any of that. All I see is pale-blond chin-length hair and very gray-blue eyes.
“Sorry, sorry...” she begins, and she keeps talking. I can’t understand her, and I hope that’s not because I got a bang on the head when we fell. The words sound like German, but from her mouth, they’re not as harsh.
“Are you OK?” I ask in reply. I’m expecting her to pause as she realizes she’ll need to answer in English for me to understand her. But she switches languages without a moment’s hesitation, and oh, God, why’s that so attractive?
“Yeah, I think so,” she says. “How about you? Sorry, I shouldn’t have been running like that, but—”
“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention.” My brain fires up again. I bend instinctively to rescue my bottle, which is rolling perilously toward the people hurrying past. As I reach for it, her eyes flit over my things. Almost as if she were silently weighing up whether or not she should help me collect them.
“Sorry, I...” She pauses as I look at her again. “I’m so late, my flight’s leaving and—”
The leaden voice of the airport announcement system interrupts her. She jumps up wildly as the German words echo from the loudspeaker. Then I hold my breath as they’re repeated in English.
“Last call for passengers Bennington and Wiley. Please go immediately to Gate B20. Last call.”
“I’m sorry.” The girl’s look is as apologetic as it is desperate.
“Is that you?” I ask, and she nods. “Edinburgh?”
“You too?”
“Yes,” I reply.
She hesitates, then reaches for my stuff. “Fine, we have to hurry.”
