Heart racing, I head directly to the gift shop, purchase a zip-up hoodie,
along with sweats and a ball cap, then find a bathroom to change in, all the
while checking over my shoulder.
Even the restroom is crowded, so I keep my head down and quickly duck
into a stall. Hands shaking, I wind my hair into a low bun, shove the hat
over the top, and then slip on the jacket, flipping the hood over my head to
cover the rest of my hair. Lastly, I pull the sweats on over my shorts,
already sweating from the layers and adrenaline.
Then, I wash my hands and rush to the ticket counter, out of breath and
practically panting in the agent’s face. She looks up at me, startled by my
sudden presence.
“May I hel—”
“I need a ticket to the next flight out,” I interrupt, nearly tripping over my
words.
She blinks at me, then focuses on her computer screen, clicking around
with her mouse and tapping a few keys.
“A flight to Indone—”
“Not that one,” I cut in again. “A different one.”
She shoots me a glare. I’m pissing her off, but I’m sure a big glass of red
wine will soothe her woes, whereas I will definitely be meeting my maker if
I’m caught.
“A flight to Australia is departing in forty minutes.”
“Sold,” I say, slapping a wad of cash and my ID on the counter. Giving
me an unimpressed look, she processes the ticket and counts through the
money. Albeit very fucking slowly.
“You’re $8.09 short,” she clips.
I’m not usually a snappy person with customer service. They deal with
enough shit. That being said, if I get caught over $8.09, I’m pointing
directly at her and screaming she did it before bolting.
Muttering beneath my breath, I fish out a ten-dollar bill from my pocket
and slap it on the counter.
Giving me the evil eye, she takes the bill and continues.
I’m constantly checking over my shoulder, but thankfully, the airport is
crowded, and I don’t see any angry faces wearing a uniform and a gun
headed my way yet.
“Do you have any luggage?”
“No, just my carry-on,” I reply.
