The airport smells like a combination of Lysol and buttered popcorn from the stand near the baggage claim, but the fresh air isn’t any more inviting. I can see Dad leaning on the hood of the station wagon talking to Chris and making huge gestures with his hands. I watch them for a second gripping my duffel bag and backpack. Chris is at least six feet now, his thin frame stretching through a t-shirt and corduroy jacket. Three years ago his voice hadn’t even started cracking, but I guess a lot of things have changed. Dad looks like he lost weight or maybe I just remember him as bigger than me,

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