chapter ten
MORGAN
When I was little, I used to hate thunderstorms. They were loud and scary.
My little five year old self would endure as much of the pummeling rain drops and flashing lights as I could, until I gave in and ran to my parent’s room.
Even when I grew too old to be finding refuge in their room, they never chased me out. Mom would always open her side of the bed and allow me to snuggle in.
Standing in the middle of the Phillip Goldson National Airport, I recall the security and protection they provided me in the storm.
Though I’ve outgrown rushing to my parents room for comfort, being a few blocks down the road from the house where I grew up has always been a safety net for me.
Now, heading to California with people I barely know to a job that I’ve never done before, I
