“Let’s just check in to the lounge first. That’s what they said to do.” She didn’t know if she could eat anyway, but knew she wanted somewhere quiet just to settle herself.

She saw whole families—babies, toddlers, grandparents. Business types strode along, checking their phones. Some people dozed in chairs at gates. A lot of people looked bored.

How could anyone be bored when they were about to fly?

She saw people watching TV, reading books, reading their tablets. She saw . . .

The man with the silver hair.

That couldn’t be, but she saw him standing in line at one of the gates.

“Marco—”

“There it is, there’s the lounge.”

“Marco, I saw . . .”

But he was gone.

“Nothing,” she mumbled.

Her imagination, stress, sensory overload.

They walked through the marked doors and into the quiet, into the smell of citrus. A white orchid bloomed on a glossy counter where a woman sat smiling.

“Good evening. May I see your boarding passes?”

“I don’t know if we’re in the right place,” Breen said as she fumbled them out.

“You certainly are. We’ll announce when it’s time to board. Go right in.”

They walked into a large room, another quiet one where people sat in chairs or at tables, enjoying drinks or snacks, paging through magazines.

Not at all sure what to do, Breen sat, looked wide-eyed at Marco.

He looked wide-eyed back at her. “People live like this, Breen. Think about it! They got shrimp up there—did you see that? They got cocktail shrimp. I’m getting us some.”

A uniformed man stopped. “Would you like a drink?”

“I . . .”

“Can we get champagne?” Marco asked.

“Of course.”

She drank champagne, ate cocktail shrimp. And didn’t blink when Marco put a couple of apples in his carry-on along with a bag of chips, a Coke, a bottle of water.

The adventure begins, she thought, and realized she could do a daily journal. It could be fun—and she’d want these memories to look back on.

Two glasses of champagne quelled the nerves so she felt only a dreamy eagerness as their flight was called. She learned first class meant they basically walked right onto the plane.

And there discovered their seats were like futuristic pods.

“We got our own TVs, girl, and a shitload of movies—free! And lookie here. These chairs go all the way back like beds. Hey, we got these cool bags full of stuff. Toothbrushes and face mist and sleep masks. Socks! How cool is all this?”

“It doesn’t seem real.”

“It’s real as fuck. Selfie.”

As he pulled out his phone a flight attendant came by. “Can I get you some drinks before we leave the gate?”

“Champagne,” Breen said and beamed. “We’re drinking champagne all the way.”

In the terminal, the man with the silver hair watched the plane pull away from the gate. And sighed.

His task here, complete and successful, meant his time had come to an end.

He’d miss Philadelphia, and the pretzels, the colors, the great groups of people.

And still, he’d be happy to be home again.

Not quite yet, he reminded himself. Another stop to make, another task to complete.

He strolled away, joined the throngs coming and going.

And, turning a corner, vanished on his way to the next stop.

CHAPTER FIVE

Breen discovered something. She liked flying. She hadn’t expected to, had prepared herself to spend hours pushing down nerves.

Instead, she found the entire experience amazing. She had food, drink, entertainment, and Marco. More, she loved looking out the window. Nothing but night, but she imagined the ocean below, ships plying the waters, little islands floating, and all while she streamed through the air.

Flying first class may not become her routine—she had to be practical—but she decided she’d no longer feel tied to the ground. Maybe, just maybe, once a year she’d pick a spot on the map, pack her bags, and go.

Wouldn’t that be incredible?

She hadn’t expected to sleep either, but the wine, a movie with Marco, the quiet hum of engines did its work. With her earbuds plugged into her playlist of Irish ballads—might as well get in the mode—she lowered her seat back all the way, snuggled into the provided blanket and pillow, and slept.

She dreamed of green fields and blue lakes, of thick forests and rising hills. She dreamed herself riding a red dragon over those fields and lakes and forests, and dreamed so deeply she felt the wind rushing over her face.

She dreamed of a stone cottage by a stream where the woods crept in at its back and a garden rioted at its feet. And nearby, as the dragon flew, a farm with green fields and stone fences where a man plowed brown rivers through the green behind a muscular brown horse.

Deep, so deep was the dream that she heard his voice as he sang of love and loss.

She dreamed and flew through the night where the red dragon sailed a sky gasping with stars. And two moons, one full and white, the other a glowing half slice, watched over the world.

As the sun rose over the green hills, spreading light in reds and golds, she flew down. She landed by the lake, by the man who stood, a sword at his side, a staff with a gleaming red stone at its tip in one hand.

In the other he held the reins of a black horse. Hair, black like his horse, fell waving beyond the collar of his shirt, with a thin braid woven in to stream down the left side. His eyes, green as the hills, bored into hers.

“Dreams aren’t doing. Awake and take, or sleep on and show his sacrifice means nothing to you.”

Fury and shame, thick ropes, snapped into a hard knot inside her. Overhead, the dawn sky roiled black. The wind lashed, knife sharp. Lightning cracked through the black with a bolt that landed inches from the man’s feet.

Neither the man nor the horse flinched.

But he smiled. “Awake then, and prove me wrong. Awake, Breen Siobhan O’Ceallaigh, and be.”

She woke, groggy, disoriented. She swore she could smell the ozone, the grass. She lay still in the darkened cabin trying to hang on to the details of the dream.

Write it down, she decided.

She pushed up, switched on the reading light, dragged out her laptop. Maybe her brain still had a curtain of fog, but she’d write down everything she remembered. All in all, she thought it a wonderful dream, a fun dream. Even the man—soldier, she wondered, king?—had been fascinating. She wondered what he represented in her subconscious.

She could figure out the rest easily enough—the dragon grown up from her other dream, flying, just as she was flying now. The freedom of it. Her admittedly postcard image of Ireland.

The two moons? Maybe representing she’d left one place (world) for another. Who knew?

The cottage equaled the one she’d booked in Galway. The farm because she’d talked about her father growing up on one. The farmer? Her father? He’d sang, and her father had sung. An Irish tenor, like the farmer, but no, not her father’s voice. She knew Eian Kelly’s voice well, as she had recordings and had listened to them when her mother wasn’t around.

But it was probably representative.

The angry man? Tall, muscular—but not bulked like Derrick, for instance. Those sharp green eyes, the black hair—long, a little wavy, with a braid down one side. Outfitted, she remembered, sort of like Game of Thrones or a King Arthur movie. The staff—power, right? Like the sword was warrior or soldier. And the stone, like the one in her other dream.

The storm, probably representative of her own temper in being told what to do. She was so beyond being told what to do.

Yes, all in all, a pretty cool dream, and worth documenting.

And so was the journey, she thought now. She didn’t know about the whole blogging thing, but she opened a new document and after a moment’s thought, titled it:

Finding Me

She wrote for nearly an hour as others in the cabin began to stir, as other lights came on. The flight attendants began to make the rounds, murmuring voices offering coffee, breakfast.

So she read over and edited—jeez, five pages!—while she drank coffee.

She took her complimentary toiletry kit and her own into the bathroom. When she got back, Marco sat up with his own coffee, reading her journal.

“Hey.”

“You left it right here. This is really good, Breen.”

“I haven’t finished, you know, polishing it.”

“It’s good. It’s like, conversational, funny, and it really gets the details. It’s just what you want for a blog. I’m setting it up.”

“Marco—”

“And I ordered us omelets, bacon for you, sausage for me. I thought about Bloody Marys or mimosas, but we’re going to be driving pretty soon. Carla the flight attendant said we should be landing in about forty-five minutes.”

He worked on her laptop as he spoke. “What do you want for your domain name?”

“I don’t—”

“Let’s keep it simple. BreenSiobhan.com—we’ll keep your last name off it for now. I’m setting it up so it keeps your personal details private, and you’ll be self-hosting. I’ll help you with that. It’ll send you updates when you get comments and all that. We’re going with simple and classy for the look, and we’ll keep it mobile-device friendly.”

He liked to play with tech, she thought. So she’d let him. “Nobody’s going to read it.”

“Everybody at Sally’s will. It’s a great way for them to keep up with what we’re doing, seeing, am I right? And for all of us when I go back home.”

He smiled at her. “You write it, I do the tech stuff. I’ll show you how to upload photos, upload your daily journal. If it’s not fun for you after a couple weeks, you ditch it. You want to pick a font?”

“You pick.” She wasn’t going to worry about it. She’d consider the entire thing long postcards to friends.

“Great. I’m going to send a group email with a link once I have it set.”