Page 133 of After We Fall

Yeah, that sounds about right.

All the pieces. All the numbers. All the love. After we fall.

Epilogue

“We’re not going to make it,” I say, staring out the giant window at Denver International Airport.

“It’s going to hold off,” Luke says, his duffel bag opened wide as he sifts through the contents. “I need to grab some gum at one of those shops.”

Still looking out the window, I say, “Check my backpack. Front compartment, third of four sections on the second row of pockets.” Sheets of rain hit the glass. “We’re not going to make it out of here.”

“It’s going to hold off,” he says again.

Lightning strikes in the background.

Luke stands behind me and works to open the backpack I’m wearing. “I wanted to get you the pink weekend travel tote.”

“And I believe my exact response was, ‘How can I travel the world with so few pockets?’”

“Which is why I got you both. Because I know secretly you thought that bag was beautiful even if it was impractical.”

Which is why my heart swelled when he bought it for me, and said tote sits at my feet with rolled-up clothes in vacuum-compression, space-saving travel bags for efficient packing.

As opposed to Luke’s clothes that get strewn all over the place when he has to get into his duffel for anything.

“I still can’t believe that you pack so disorderly.”

“Disorderly?” he says in a fake-offended voice. “I’m a priority packer. I have the essentials. Everything else I might need, I’ll figure out along the way.”

“How did gum not make it on the essential list?”

“I thought I had some from my last trip.” He closes up my pack, yanking me a little to the side, but then steadies my shoulders to set me right again.

“But you made sure cargo pants were in the bag before you left because those are quintessential Luke Granger.”

He kisses my cheek. “You know it.”

“We’re not going to make it.”

“It’s going to hold off.” He stands next to me, both of us with our arms crossed. As we look out at the numerous planes docked at empty gates, a sheet of rain hits the windowpane so hard we both jump.

He nods to my backpack, still attached to me. “What else you got in there?”

“Maps.”

He grips my backpack and shakes. “That’s a lot of maps.”

“Our itinerary.”

“I thought we were just going for a few days. This feels like a lot of paper. Or something.” He pats it down. “Seriously, what is in here?”

“We’re not going to make it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s going to hold off.” The lights flicker. “Why do you need printouts of maps and itineraries?”

With our travel taking us to a remote location in Costa Rica to scope out a new aid project, I did some prep work.

I sigh and turn to him. “I printed the maps, itinerary, copies of our passports, and my spreadsheet. I packed gifts for the families that are hosting us, printouts of the contents of each of our bags in case our luggage is lost, and, against my better judgment, boarding passes to the flight we aren’t going to make. Do you want to know the exact contents of the small liquids I put in a quart-sized baggie?”