Harrison, I typed, using his first name as he’d insisted, though it still felt presumptuous: I know you’re in Switzerland for your son’s birthday, but I just landed in Atlanta after my surgery in Cleveland—having some transportation issues. Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. Hope the celebration is wonderful.

I sent it without expecting a response. He was probably still overseas enjoying time with his family, not concerning himself with a sixty‑seven‑year‑old widow’s transportation problems.

My phone rang almost immediately. Pamela, his deep voice with that slight Boston accent was unmistakable. “Where exactly are you in the airport?”

“Terminal B.”

“Stay there. I’m at Terminal C right now. Just flew in from Zurich myself.”