A typical three-hour flight from New York to New Orleans stretches into nine at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia. Unable to board a connecting flight, confusion mars our faces when the deadpan flight attendant at the boarding gate announces a six-hour layover.
“What? No.” Confounded, I peer at Stacy with raised brows. She would have mentioned a layover when she booked the trip. In our haste to leave New York, we trusted her to make the flight arrangements without double-checking details.
“Are you kidding?” Stacy screeches, glaring at the flight attendant. “Lo juro, I swear no layover was on the reservation. Aerolínea estúpida! Someone screwed up. I’ll report this to customer service,” she shouts, irate and done with her outburst.
Jude and Mitchell sling an ac
