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head.”
    The backpacker, who had been scowling at his phone, looked up at that. “Does that kind of writing pay?”
    She studied him severely. “Yes, but it’s hard work. You have to do a lot of research and be able to understand the human heart. You need to interview people skillfully and write well. And you’ve got to have sympathetic victims, women or children, preferably from the middle class or above. Or at least with aspirations. People need to be able to identify with them.” Her hand crept into her white straw bag as if looking for something, then retreated. “Don’t tell me you’re a writer too. What are the odds?”
    â€œNah, computer science. But I’m looking to retire.”
    The editor choked on a laugh. “Retire?”
    â€œWhat’s so funny about that? I’m almost thirty. All it takes is one great idea, and you’re set for life.”
    â€œThat’s what your generation thinks, isn’t it?”
    â€œWell, good luck to you,” the man with the Enquirer said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to retire.”
    â€œWhat do you do?” Fiona asked.
    â€œPool maintenance. I have my own outfit. But my daughter’s only twelve. She’s who I’m waiting for.”
    At that moment, the “Arrivals” notice flashed on the monitor, and there was a garbled loudspeaker announcement.
    The editor stuffed her Book Review in her bag and pushed up from the navy worsted chair, giving an unselfconscious groan. “Lordy, these seats are excruciating!”
    The rest of the group stood up too. Then, except for the backpacker, who was biting a knuckle, they smiled politely at each other.
    Theirvoyage together was over.

Chapter Five
    L EE WAS NOT on the plane. Fiona joined the group of people waiting and watched as the stream of exiting passengers once again slowed and then stopped. This time, she did not stop the flight attendants in their navy uniforms to question them. After several minutes, the lounge was empty again except for the people she had been waiting with. It was as if a giant wave had swept over a beach and left only them—flotsam—behind.
    â€œShit, shit, shit!” The backpacker pounded his fist against the back of a seat. “Where is he?”
    â€œWhere was he coming from?” But Fiona dreaded the answer.
    â€œTaos. Where else?”
    â€œMaybe this flight was already booked up,” the pool man said. “People who had tickets would be given preference over standbys.”
    â€œYes, but it wasn’t their fault!” Fiona told herself not to catastrophize. She had too much imagination.
    â€œIt is the end of vacation,” Maggie agreed quickly, giving Derek’s wheelchair a tiny jiggle to quiet his moaning. “I should have told my father to come next week.”
    â€œHe’d better be on the next flight,” the backpacker threatened.
    Or else what?
    â€œI get what you’re saying,” Fiona told the man. “But if they were bumped, why didn’t they call to let us know?”
    Maggie laughed. “My dad wouldn’t.”
    â€œCoral probably forgot to charge her phone again.” Her father gave a laugh. “I’m always on her about it.”
    â€œWell, I think it’s very inconsiderate,” the editor said. “This is going to disrupt our whole schedule! Unless—did I give Susan my new cell number? I think I did.”
    â€œI’m gonna find out what’s going on,” the backpacker announced, and stalked off.
    Fiona pulled out her iPhone and retrieved a dial tone. The phone was still charged, still working. It was odd, though, that she hadn’t gotten texts from anyone else. It had to be a service glitch.
    She started to put the phone away when it dinged. At last.
    It was a text from her bank, offering a new deposit app.
    The backpacker returned, a messenger with an outraged scowl. “That was