“I just didn’t grasp . . .” Words truly fail me. “I couldn’t have begun to predict . . .”
“I know,” he agrees. “As much wonderful stuff as I’ve seen before, this outweighs it all. It’s the silver lining, maybe.”
“It is,” I say firmly. “It is.”
Just after the captain announces we’ve reached cruising altitude, I zonk out and sleep dreamlessly, for which I am grateful. I wake to Esben gently shaking me. We’ve already landed.
“Listen,” he says. “The flight attendant is talking about you and Steffi.”
I rub my eyes. At the front of the cabin, a woman stands, holding the PA. She catches my eye. “This song goes out to Allison and Steffi. Love and peace from the airline and all of our passengers. We’re with you.”
Softly and beautifully, she begins to sing “Amazing Grace.”
Esben holds my hand, and, together, we listen. I inhale sharply when a few passengers join in and again when I realize that the entire cabin is singing. My heart is simultaneously breaking and soaring. The overwhelming level of humanity and care coming from strangers is simply daunting. Because I know this is important, and that I’ll want to see it later, I ask Esben to film it, which he does.
Outside the gate, I find the nearest bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face. I will not cry now. It’s not the time.
As I’m drying my hands, I hear Esben call into the women’s room. “Allison? We’ve got to go. Now!”
I move quickly, and I start running beside him without question.
“We have to get to Midway. It’s about forty minutes from here,” he says. “Flight leaves in fifty-five minutes.”
“Oh no.”
“We just need to haul ass.” He guides us through travelers to a moving walkway where we continue to run and dodge people. “We’ve got a ride, though, and I think you’ll like it.”
This airport is frustratingly huge, and it feels like forever before we reach baggage claim. Suddenly, he stops and casts his eyes over the crowd, searching hard.
“What are we looking for?”
He smiles, bends over to both catch his breath and laugh, and then points. “God, this is nuts. But there.”
A man in a suit and black chauffeur hat is holding up a sign with our names on it.
“A limo? Is that a limo driver?” This is crazy.
“It certainly is,” he says. “It certainly is. Come on.”
The man shakes both of our hands quickly. “I’m Leon. The cop outside let me leave the car out front, but he only gave me five minutes. Hurry.”
We get outside to the white stretch limo in record time, and even after we pull out of the airport, I’m still not processing what’s happening. Dance music is blasting, and I am officially on sensory overload. There are slick black leather seats, colored lights on the ceiling, two bottles of champagne, and . . . garter belts around the bottle necks.
“Leon?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“This limo? Um, was it scheduled for something else tonight?”
“A bachelorette party, ma’am. The bride-to-be transferred her rental over to you.”
“That was very generous of her,” I reply. “Please thank her!”
Esben puts his phone in front of me. “You can thank her yourself. She used the hashtag for you and Steffi and wished us safe travels.”
I reply to the bachelorette’s tweet with a selfie from the inside of the limo. What a crazy sweet thing for her to do. Next, I send a video of me lying down on the seats to Steffi. Heading to Midway in style! I write.
Holy crap! she texts back. I just read about this online. I can hardly keep up with all of the comments. Drink some of that champagne for me!
“So we have tickets to Los Angeles?” I ask.
Esben nods. “We do. A nice young couple. They just . . . gave up their seats. Just because they’re awesome.” He sighs with a happiness of sorts. “If you can believe it, the pilot is going to meet us at security and help get us through. He can only wait so long, though. It’s going to be tight.”
“I can’t believe this is working.” I’m still in shock.
“I know. I can’t either.”
We’re more than thirty minutes into the ride when Leon says from up front, “Sir? Ma’am? We have a problem.”
The car slows to a stop. There are red brake lights everywhere.
Before I have a chance to say anything, Esben is online. He finishes typing and looks at me. “Say a prayer.” Then he opens the moonroof and pokes his head out.
“What are you doing? Esben!” I stand, too, and take in the horrendous traffic jam. “Christ. No. No, not now. Please.”
“Come on. Come on. Come on.” He’s facing the cars behind us.
“What are you doing? We’re stuck. We’re just stuck.” I rub my face. “We’ll have to . . . hope for a later flight.”
“This is the last one out tonight.”
“Oh God.”
“We’re getting on it,” he says stubbornly. “Just . . . just wait.”
The cars behind us begin to blur into one. This is over. We won’t reach Steffi. The honking of horns is deafening, the endless sea of lights depressing. I hear the roar of some kind of engine, but I don’t care what it is.
“There!” Esben shouts excitedly. “There!”
I stare in shock as four tough-looking motorcyclists pull up next to us. “You must be Allison and Esben. Heard you two need a lift.”
The guys look to be in their midfifties, all with thick graying beards, denim and leather outfits, heavy boots, and bandannas knotted around their heads. Tattoos are everywhere. They’re also all wearing sunglasses, despite the time of night.
“Oh boy,” Esben says.
“You’re definitely posting this insanity,” I say with a laugh. “Steffi won’t forgive us if we don’t.”
“You coming or not?” The first biker holds out a helmet.
“We’re coming!” I duck down. “Thank you, Leon. Thank you so much.” I swing open the door and walk to the biker, who revs his engine. I glance back at Esben, who shakes his head with amused acceptance.
“All set there?” My new driver asks gruffly. “Grab on tight, sweet cheeks. We’ll be taking the breakdown lane. Could get a little hairy.”
I straddle the bike and clutch on hard to this man’s mammoth waist. “Okay. What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He revs his engine again. “Here we go.”
A surge of fear courses through me, and I shut my eyes for a moment. We are, for sure, speeding, but I’m comforted by the fact that my driver is obviously in total control of his bike as he flies us past unmoving cars. Without these bikers, we’d never make it to Midway. Never.
Just as we pass the area where traffic seems to ease up—there’s no sign of an accident or anything, just a damn unexplained traffic clog—a siren rings out behind us.
“Here we go!” my biker cries out rather triumphantly and hits the gas. “Hang on, little lady! Hang on!”
Oh my God.
A motorcycle cop is chasing us.