Varga was two rows back on the aisle side, talking into Rook's headphones from the seat beside him. Rook still had the headphones on. Varga's hands moved as he narrated. The trip had given him material, and he was processing it at full speed.
The engines pitched upward. As the city slowly disappeared behind clouds, the altitude display read thirty thousand feet and climbing.
Forty minutes later, Chicago appeared as we descended through the clouds. It created a clean line at the edge of Lake Michigan.
The runways at O’Hare came into view, long white strips crossing at angles. Traffic flowed toward them in steady lines, red and white, not stopping. The Kennedy ran straight in toward the center, packed at all hours. The river cut through the grid and bent hard near downtown.
I knew the approach well. The skyline assembled itself in the same order every time, as fixed as anything in my crease geometry.
I was returning to something beyond the city. Something unpredictable. I was looking forward to being home.
It was the side of my wall where the music lived, from disco to Fleetwood Mac. I looked at the altitude display and watched the descent continue. Chicago came up to meet us.
