Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport
8:17 p.m.
748 miles from home
In a single, practiced motion he slipped halfway into his coat and slid the backpack strap onto his shoulder. He wrenched himself and dangled his left hand back, trying to catch the loose sleeve. Instead, he clipped the head of the man from 6B, sitting there in his seat, placidly awaiting the jumbled exit from the plane.
“Sorry,” Max said.
Pursed lips and no reply from 6B. Max set his backpack down in his own seat, 6C, across the aisle, and tried again, this time with more precision and control. He hooked the left sleeve and shimmied the coat fully onto his shoulders, then brought the backpack up again.
“I never understand the hurry,” 6B side-mouthed to 6A. “We’re all going to get off in due time.”
6A, a woman about 6B’s age, Max figured, similarly neat in dress and taciturn in manner, patted his hand without a look up.
“There’s no need to race everyone,” 6B groused on.
“Some people like to stand,” 6A said. She now glanced at Max and offered a fraction of a smile, one that he couldn’t quite interpret. Don’t mind my grumpy husband, maybe? Or, you clumsy oaf, more likely?
Max swallowed hard, clearing the post-nasal drip. “It’s just that I have a tight connection.”
6B gave him a look of merciless erosion. “I wasn’t speaking to you.” The final syllable drew out like a Catholic wedding.
“OK,” Max said. Another quarter-way smile from 6A, and then forward movement up ahead and the murmur of insincere goodbyes from the flight crew.
Max took a half-step back, clearing the space between the seats. “After you,” he said to 6B and 6A. They shuffled into the aisle, collected their things from the floor and the overhead bin, and walked toward the door, Max hanging back a couple of steps.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said to the captain as he exited, same words, same delivery as several hundred times before. The flight attendant smiled, same as ever. Max hucked the backpack higher on his shoulders, ducked his head, and stepped into the jet bridge.
He merged with the stampeding humanity of the F concourse at 8:23, and though he dutifully put one foot in front of the other, dropping heavy steps toward the gate at the end of C, he knew there was little point. The two words he hadn’t wanted to see—“on time”—had stared back at him from the departure board, and there was no way of bridging the distance before Flight 859 pushed back from the gate and headed for Billings without him. Last plane home.
Still, he pushed forward, past gift shops and fast food, past mothers who pushed strollers holding sleeping children, against the flow of business travelers and students, to the end of the F concourse, left turn, under the mezzanine, veering away from the signs pointing to baggage claim, right turn at the C concourse, all the way down, past the art gallery, onward, ever onward.
On the people mover, he thought of a treadmill, and then he ricocheted off to his seventeenth year, West High, the endless quarter-miles he could toss off, one after another, when he was a young man of remarkable endurance if not elite speed. In those days, he could cover the distance in eighty-nine seconds. That’s a five-minute, fifty-six-second mile at speed. In an hour, 10.1123 miles. Maybe he could have done that, had he ever trained for that kind of sustained all-out run. In twenty-four hours, 242.688 miles. No chance. Even youth has limits.
Gate C27, now emptied out, came into view, and he wondered if, imbued with his youthful gait, he could have made it, dashing through the nighttime terminal like the Hertz commercial O.J. Simpson of his memories, before the Juice became known for other methods of running. Probably not. He knew the speed but not the distance or the rate of flow. Would have been fun to try, though.
“It’s gone, I guess,” Max said to the gate agent.
“About to be.” The agent, maybe Alexandra’s age, tilted her head toward the window. The jet bridge was pulling back from the plane.
“No chance you’d…”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“They’ll be happy to rebook you at customer service.”
“I know the drill. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Me, too.”
Sorry didn’t begin to cover the half of it. The whole thing, right down the line, had been a series of misses that took Max increasingly far afield from the promises he’d made. The standby day in Wisconsin while the eggheads from Germany monkeyed with the tool. He’d pushed his come-home flight back a day when that happened, a two-hundred-dollar charge that wouldn’t even cause a blink on the other end when his expense report went in. Then the shutdown in Indiana, six miles from the end of the run. That had wiped out his margin of error. The hour and fifteen minutes on the tarmac at Midway as they replaced a cockpit panel had pushed him into the red. The distance between the gates in Minneapolis had finally torn it for good.
On the other end of Max’s call, Janine had none of it.
“I knew,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t be back.”
“I couldn’t do anything about it.”
A sigh across the miles, across the years. “You never can.”
“It was just bad luck.”
“I said, ‘You going to be home Thursday?’ You said, ‘Oh, yeah, no problem.’”
“I didn’t know this—”
“Just stop.”
He stopped. Silence pushed in between them, wiping out the rest of what he might have said.
“This is important to me,” she said.
“To me, too.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“It’s not, or you’d be here.”
“I couldn’t.”
“And there you are. You just had to take the late plane, and now…”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you did. And you made it.”
“I’ll be there by lunch,” he said brightly, as if some manufactured cheerfulness could save him now. “Maybe we could—”
“Alex and I are going to brunch after the thing. To celebrate.”
“I should be there.”
“Alex and I are going to brunch.”
“OK. I’ll wait at home.”
“Goodnight,” she said.
Max lingered in front of the bank of vending machines, considering his meager options. The airline rep had come by with an overnight kit—floor mat, tube of toothpaste and a miniature brush, wet wipes. “Thanks for flying Delta,” he’d said. Max had built himself a bivouac at Gate G5—another long walk after the rebooking and before the contretemps with Janine—and was now procuring provisions.
A swipe of the card, buttons punched, and a bag of cookies preserved unto the next ice age dropped from their perch. Max pushed back the door and collected them.
Now he moved one machine to his left, swiped again, and punched in the code for a Diet Coke. A mechanical arm with a big receptacle moved up and over, collected the bottle, and deposited it in the holding chute. A cylindrical door opened, and Max grabbed the drink, too.
“That stuff’ll kill you.”
Max turned around. Jogging Suit Man, who’d also made camp at G5, smiled and pointed at the soda. “Chemicals. So-called essential oils. Artificial sweeteners. Caffeine.”
Max shrugged. “Not going to be able to sleep anyway. I’m not worried about the caffeine.”
“I used to drink that stuff. A two-liter bottle a day, at least.”
“Yeah?”
“Now, straight-up water. At least a hundred and twenty ounces daily. Usually more.”
Max thought of Niagara Falls. And then he thought of urinals into infinity. And he thought of the sublime freedom of peeing outdoors, perhaps discreetly covered by an open door on his rental car, his mobile office, but otherwise whizzing into the weeds, as God intended.
“Interesting,” Max said.
“I started running,” Jogging Suit Man said. “Sixty-eight years old, can do a nine-minute mile.”
“I can run faster than that.”
“Oh?”
Max’s hands went to his ample midsection. “Could.”
“Ah.”
Jogging Suit Man, like Seat 6A, regarded him with a smile that couldn’t be deciphered.
“OK, then,” Max said.
“OK,” Jogging Suit Man said. “But that stuff will kill you.”
Max looked at the bottle in his hand, then back at Jogging Suit Man.
“When?”
8:17 p.m.
748 miles from home
In a single, practiced motion he slipped halfway into his coat and slid the backpack strap onto his shoulder. He wrenched himself and dangled his left hand back, trying to catch the loose sleeve. Instead, he clipped the head of the man from 6B, sitting there in his seat, placidly awaiting the jumbled exit from the plane.
“Sorry,” Max said.
Pursed lips and no reply from 6B. Max set his backpack down in his own seat, 6C, across the aisle, and tried again, this time with more precision and control. He hooked the left sleeve and shimmied the coat fully onto his shoulders, then brought the backpack up again.
“I never understand the hurry,” 6B side-mouthed to 6A. “We’re all going to get off in due time.”
6A, a woman about 6B’s age, Max figured, similarly neat in dress and taciturn in manner, patted his hand without a look up.
“There’s no need to race everyone,” 6B groused on.
“Some people like to stand,” 6A said. She now glanced at Max and offered a fraction of a smile, one that he couldn’t quite interpret. Don’t mind my grumpy husband, maybe? Or, you clumsy oaf, more likely?
Max swallowed hard, clearing the post-nasal drip. “It’s just that I have a tight connection.”
6B gave him a look of merciless erosion. “I wasn’t speaking to you.” The final syllable drew out like a Catholic wedding.
“OK,” Max said. Another quarter-way smile from 6A, and then forward movement up ahead and the murmur of insincere goodbyes from the flight crew.
Max took a half-step back, clearing the space between the seats. “After you,” he said to 6B and 6A. They shuffled into the aisle, collected their things from the floor and the overhead bin, and walked toward the door, Max hanging back a couple of steps.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said to the captain as he exited, same words, same delivery as several hundred times before. The flight attendant smiled, same as ever. Max hucked the backpack higher on his shoulders, ducked his head, and stepped into the jet bridge.
He merged with the stampeding humanity of the F concourse at 8:23, and though he dutifully put one foot in front of the other, dropping heavy steps toward the gate at the end of C, he knew there was little point. The two words he hadn’t wanted to see—“on time”—had stared back at him from the departure board, and there was no way of bridging the distance before Flight 859 pushed back from the gate and headed for Billings without him. Last plane home.
Still, he pushed forward, past gift shops and fast food, past mothers who pushed strollers holding sleeping children, against the flow of business travelers and students, to the end of the F concourse, left turn, under the mezzanine, veering away from the signs pointing to baggage claim, right turn at the C concourse, all the way down, past the art gallery, onward, ever onward.
On the people mover, he thought of a treadmill, and then he ricocheted off to his seventeenth year, West High, the endless quarter-miles he could toss off, one after another, when he was a young man of remarkable endurance if not elite speed. In those days, he could cover the distance in eighty-nine seconds. That’s a five-minute, fifty-six-second mile at speed. In an hour, 10.1123 miles. Maybe he could have done that, had he ever trained for that kind of sustained all-out run. In twenty-four hours, 242.688 miles. No chance. Even youth has limits.
Gate C27, now emptied out, came into view, and he wondered if, imbued with his youthful gait, he could have made it, dashing through the nighttime terminal like the Hertz commercial O.J. Simpson of his memories, before the Juice became known for other methods of running. Probably not. He knew the speed but not the distance or the rate of flow. Would have been fun to try, though.
“It’s gone, I guess,” Max said to the gate agent.
“About to be.” The agent, maybe Alexandra’s age, tilted her head toward the window. The jet bridge was pulling back from the plane.
“No chance you’d…”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“They’ll be happy to rebook you at customer service.”
“I know the drill. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Me, too.”
Sorry didn’t begin to cover the half of it. The whole thing, right down the line, had been a series of misses that took Max increasingly far afield from the promises he’d made. The standby day in Wisconsin while the eggheads from Germany monkeyed with the tool. He’d pushed his come-home flight back a day when that happened, a two-hundred-dollar charge that wouldn’t even cause a blink on the other end when his expense report went in. Then the shutdown in Indiana, six miles from the end of the run. That had wiped out his margin of error. The hour and fifteen minutes on the tarmac at Midway as they replaced a cockpit panel had pushed him into the red. The distance between the gates in Minneapolis had finally torn it for good.
On the other end of Max’s call, Janine had none of it.
“I knew,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t be back.”
“I couldn’t do anything about it.”
A sigh across the miles, across the years. “You never can.”
“It was just bad luck.”
“I said, ‘You going to be home Thursday?’ You said, ‘Oh, yeah, no problem.’”
“I didn’t know this—”
“Just stop.”
He stopped. Silence pushed in between them, wiping out the rest of what he might have said.
“This is important to me,” she said.
“To me, too.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“It’s not, or you’d be here.”
“I couldn’t.”
“And there you are. You just had to take the late plane, and now…”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you did. And you made it.”
“I’ll be there by lunch,” he said brightly, as if some manufactured cheerfulness could save him now. “Maybe we could—”
“Alex and I are going to brunch after the thing. To celebrate.”
“I should be there.”
“Alex and I are going to brunch.”
“OK. I’ll wait at home.”
“Goodnight,” she said.
Max lingered in front of the bank of vending machines, considering his meager options. The airline rep had come by with an overnight kit—floor mat, tube of toothpaste and a miniature brush, wet wipes. “Thanks for flying Delta,” he’d said. Max had built himself a bivouac at Gate G5—another long walk after the rebooking and before the contretemps with Janine—and was now procuring provisions.
A swipe of the card, buttons punched, and a bag of cookies preserved unto the next ice age dropped from their perch. Max pushed back the door and collected them.
Now he moved one machine to his left, swiped again, and punched in the code for a Diet Coke. A mechanical arm with a big receptacle moved up and over, collected the bottle, and deposited it in the holding chute. A cylindrical door opened, and Max grabbed the drink, too.
“That stuff’ll kill you.”
Max turned around. Jogging Suit Man, who’d also made camp at G5, smiled and pointed at the soda. “Chemicals. So-called essential oils. Artificial sweeteners. Caffeine.”
Max shrugged. “Not going to be able to sleep anyway. I’m not worried about the caffeine.”
“I used to drink that stuff. A two-liter bottle a day, at least.”
“Yeah?”
“Now, straight-up water. At least a hundred and twenty ounces daily. Usually more.”
Max thought of Niagara Falls. And then he thought of urinals into infinity. And he thought of the sublime freedom of peeing outdoors, perhaps discreetly covered by an open door on his rental car, his mobile office, but otherwise whizzing into the weeds, as God intended.
“Interesting,” Max said.
“I started running,” Jogging Suit Man said. “Sixty-eight years old, can do a nine-minute mile.”
“I can run faster than that.”
“Oh?”
Max’s hands went to his ample midsection. “Could.”
“Ah.”
Jogging Suit Man, like Seat 6A, regarded him with a smile that couldn’t be deciphered.
“OK, then,” Max said.
“OK,” Jogging Suit Man said. “But that stuff will kill you.”
Max looked at the bottle in his hand, then back at Jogging Suit Man.
“When?”
Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport
4:03 a.m.
Six hours and fifty-nine minutes from home
Jogging Suit Man settled into his makeshift camp next to Max’s, cheeks red and hair wet. He’d come from the men’s restroom across the concourse, so Max couldn’t be sure whether the drenching was from the faucet there or from the laps he’d run through the quiet airport. Max had logged seven of them once he realized they were happening. The times had been a scattershot across the clock; on one lap, Jogging Suit Man would be gone eight minutes and twenty-nine seconds, on the next four minutes and three seconds, and so on. The inexplicable inconsistency had gnawed at Max.
“Now I won’t have to work out once we get to Billings,” Jogging Suit Man said after he sat down and gently shook the excess water from his head. “Fortuitous.”
Max, sitting on his own floor mat, looked around at the clumps of stranded travelers, all either snoozing (how?) or otherwise uninterested in him and his impromptu bunkmate.
“I timed you,” Max said, surprising himself with the revelation.
“Oh?”
“Nine-minute mile,” he scrambled. “Was trying to figure out how far you went, that’s all. A hobby of mine.”
“Timing people, or math?” Jogging Suit Man’s smile left no room for interpretation. Bemused.
“Math.” Max looked down, fixating on the patterns in the carpet.
“I definitely wasn’t on that kind of pace. Just needed to move,” Jogging Suit Man said. With precise hands, he folded the thin airline blanket into a perfect square and set it down.
“I figured. The lap times were all jumbled.”
“Well, I stopped and looked at the art. There’s some fine Cuban works over there, in an airport of all places. You like art?”
“It’s OK,” Max said.
“That’s exactly what Baudelaire said.”
Max flushed at the gentle mockery and hoped it didn’t show. He couldn’t rightly say whether he liked this guy—he suspected he probably didn’t—but he was fascinated nonetheless.
“I read,” Max said, patting the Craig Johnson paperback at his knee. Seventy-six books last year, Baudelaire.
“Reading’s fine, yes, indeed,” Jogging Suit Man said. “Can’t get far without reading. But you know what they say about a picture.”
“Sure.”
“What I mean is, I look at a painting—let’s say Saco Bay, by Homer—and—”
“I’m not familiar.”
“You really must rectify that. But anyway, the point I’m making is, here’s this painting of two women, sunset, silhouette, the sky this color that’s all at once familiar and unlike anything I’ve ever seen on this earth, and I feel like if I could just step close enough—”
“You could be in there with them?”
Jogging Suit Man, for the first time, looked as if he’d been knocked off-stride. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s it.”
“I understand,” Max said.
“There’s an aliveness in it. Being moved by art.”
“I guess.”
Jogging Suit Man held Max in gaze for an uncomfortable few moments, grinning at him as if he were a lifelong knucklehead buddy. Max shrugged and then fortified his response. “I get what you’re saying. I just don’t look at a lot of art, I guess.”
Jogging Suit man nodded and continued prepping his staked-out area. “I’m from that country, you know.”
“What country?” Max asked.
“Maine. Saco Bay. Biddeford, really, but close enough.”
“I’ve never been.”
Behind them, on the other side of the row of low-slung seats, a sleeping traveler farted, grumbled, flopped over, and returned to slumber. The uninvited cloud wafted over. Max and Jogging Suit Man covered their noses and mouths with upheld hands, and both giggled.
Jogging Suit Man uncovered, venturing a test of the air quality. With both hands, he swept back his silver hair.
“That guy ought to change his diet,” he said.
Max felt around on his right side, opposite Jogging Suit Man, and pushed his half-eaten bag of cookies into the recesses of his campsite. “Yeah.”
“Anyway, Maine, best place on earth,” Jogging Suit Man said.
“I’ve heard good things. I like Montana.”
“What’s not to like?”
Max thought the question rhetorical, so he clamped down on a powerful urge to answer, which, he feared, could turn into a ceaseless ramble through the many things and people and situations in Montana that weren’t to like but that, yeah, the place itself was just dandy.
“It’ll be good to get home,” he said now, a lie tangential to the discussion at hand.
“Work trip?” Jogging Suit Man said.
“Yeah.”
“Best left to young fellows like you. What do you do?”
“Pipeline inspection,” Max said, instantly surprised that a simplified version of the truth had popped out. These past few years, to amuse himself during inevitable airline conversations, he’d been fudging the details of his employment, passing himself off as a plumber or an electrician or a basketball coach—anything, really, where he had a bit of operational knowledge and at least a mild interest in the subject. The one time he’d gone too far, co-opting Alexandra’s job as the president of the Montana Regional Multiple Listing Service, he’d stupidly ignored two things: First, that there’s in-flight WiFi and such declarations can be verified, and second, that there was a chance (one hundred percent, in this case) that his seatmate would be a real estate agent. That had been a long flight.
Jogging Suit Man’s senses attenuated. “Petroleum or gas?” he asked.
“Petroleum, mostly.”
“Are you actually inspecting the welds as they put the pipe in, or is it right-of-way issues, or—”
“No, nothing like that. I track tools through the line.”
“Pigs,” Jogging Man said, knowing.
“That’s what they call them, yeah.” Pig tracker or pipeline inspector, which job title would you choose?
“That certainly explains the interest in my rate of speed. I’d say it’s a bit more than a hobby, wouldn’t you?” Jogging Suit Man didn’t wait for Max to answer. “What were you running, a cleaner?”
“Not this time. Diagnostic.”
“A crack tool?” The well-informed staccato call and response Jogging Suit Man was engaging him in caused Max to wonder if he was dealing with an oil man. He’d heard that some of them tended to retire to Maine.
“Yeah, a crack tool,” Max said. “You in the business?”
Jogging Suit Man laughed, big and hearty. “No. It’s just that I read, too.”
“About fluid dynamics?”
“About whatever.”
Jogging Suit Man set his folded airline blanket upon the meager airline pillow that Max surmised he’d swiped from first class on his incoming flight. He stretched out on his side and set his head down, then sat up again. He offered a right hand across the distance to Max.
“Charles Foster Danforth, retired pediatrician.”
Max clasped the hand with a well-exercised grip. “Max Wendt, pig tracker.”
4:03 a.m.
Six hours and fifty-nine minutes from home
Jogging Suit Man settled into his makeshift camp next to Max’s, cheeks red and hair wet. He’d come from the men’s restroom across the concourse, so Max couldn’t be sure whether the drenching was from the faucet there or from the laps he’d run through the quiet airport. Max had logged seven of them once he realized they were happening. The times had been a scattershot across the clock; on one lap, Jogging Suit Man would be gone eight minutes and twenty-nine seconds, on the next four minutes and three seconds, and so on. The inexplicable inconsistency had gnawed at Max.
“Now I won’t have to work out once we get to Billings,” Jogging Suit Man said after he sat down and gently shook the excess water from his head. “Fortuitous.”
Max, sitting on his own floor mat, looked around at the clumps of stranded travelers, all either snoozing (how?) or otherwise uninterested in him and his impromptu bunkmate.
“I timed you,” Max said, surprising himself with the revelation.
“Oh?”
“Nine-minute mile,” he scrambled. “Was trying to figure out how far you went, that’s all. A hobby of mine.”
“Timing people, or math?” Jogging Suit Man’s smile left no room for interpretation. Bemused.
“Math.” Max looked down, fixating on the patterns in the carpet.
“I definitely wasn’t on that kind of pace. Just needed to move,” Jogging Suit Man said. With precise hands, he folded the thin airline blanket into a perfect square and set it down.
“I figured. The lap times were all jumbled.”
“Well, I stopped and looked at the art. There’s some fine Cuban works over there, in an airport of all places. You like art?”
“It’s OK,” Max said.
“That’s exactly what Baudelaire said.”
Max flushed at the gentle mockery and hoped it didn’t show. He couldn’t rightly say whether he liked this guy—he suspected he probably didn’t—but he was fascinated nonetheless.
“I read,” Max said, patting the Craig Johnson paperback at his knee. Seventy-six books last year, Baudelaire.
“Reading’s fine, yes, indeed,” Jogging Suit Man said. “Can’t get far without reading. But you know what they say about a picture.”
“Sure.”
“What I mean is, I look at a painting—let’s say Saco Bay, by Homer—and—”
“I’m not familiar.”
“You really must rectify that. But anyway, the point I’m making is, here’s this painting of two women, sunset, silhouette, the sky this color that’s all at once familiar and unlike anything I’ve ever seen on this earth, and I feel like if I could just step close enough—”
“You could be in there with them?”
Jogging Suit Man, for the first time, looked as if he’d been knocked off-stride. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s it.”
“I understand,” Max said.
“There’s an aliveness in it. Being moved by art.”
“I guess.”
Jogging Suit Man held Max in gaze for an uncomfortable few moments, grinning at him as if he were a lifelong knucklehead buddy. Max shrugged and then fortified his response. “I get what you’re saying. I just don’t look at a lot of art, I guess.”
Jogging Suit man nodded and continued prepping his staked-out area. “I’m from that country, you know.”
“What country?” Max asked.
“Maine. Saco Bay. Biddeford, really, but close enough.”
“I’ve never been.”
Behind them, on the other side of the row of low-slung seats, a sleeping traveler farted, grumbled, flopped over, and returned to slumber. The uninvited cloud wafted over. Max and Jogging Suit Man covered their noses and mouths with upheld hands, and both giggled.
Jogging Suit Man uncovered, venturing a test of the air quality. With both hands, he swept back his silver hair.
“That guy ought to change his diet,” he said.
Max felt around on his right side, opposite Jogging Suit Man, and pushed his half-eaten bag of cookies into the recesses of his campsite. “Yeah.”
“Anyway, Maine, best place on earth,” Jogging Suit Man said.
“I’ve heard good things. I like Montana.”
“What’s not to like?”
Max thought the question rhetorical, so he clamped down on a powerful urge to answer, which, he feared, could turn into a ceaseless ramble through the many things and people and situations in Montana that weren’t to like but that, yeah, the place itself was just dandy.
“It’ll be good to get home,” he said now, a lie tangential to the discussion at hand.
“Work trip?” Jogging Suit Man said.
“Yeah.”
“Best left to young fellows like you. What do you do?”
“Pipeline inspection,” Max said, instantly surprised that a simplified version of the truth had popped out. These past few years, to amuse himself during inevitable airline conversations, he’d been fudging the details of his employment, passing himself off as a plumber or an electrician or a basketball coach—anything, really, where he had a bit of operational knowledge and at least a mild interest in the subject. The one time he’d gone too far, co-opting Alexandra’s job as the president of the Montana Regional Multiple Listing Service, he’d stupidly ignored two things: First, that there’s in-flight WiFi and such declarations can be verified, and second, that there was a chance (one hundred percent, in this case) that his seatmate would be a real estate agent. That had been a long flight.
Jogging Suit Man’s senses attenuated. “Petroleum or gas?” he asked.
“Petroleum, mostly.”
“Are you actually inspecting the welds as they put the pipe in, or is it right-of-way issues, or—”
“No, nothing like that. I track tools through the line.”
“Pigs,” Jogging Man said, knowing.
“That’s what they call them, yeah.” Pig tracker or pipeline inspector, which job title would you choose?
“That certainly explains the interest in my rate of speed. I’d say it’s a bit more than a hobby, wouldn’t you?” Jogging Suit Man didn’t wait for Max to answer. “What were you running, a cleaner?”
“Not this time. Diagnostic.”
“A crack tool?” The well-informed staccato call and response Jogging Suit Man was engaging him in caused Max to wonder if he was dealing with an oil man. He’d heard that some of them tended to retire to Maine.
“Yeah, a crack tool,” Max said. “You in the business?”
Jogging Suit Man laughed, big and hearty. “No. It’s just that I read, too.”
“About fluid dynamics?”
“About whatever.”
Jogging Suit Man set his folded airline blanket upon the meager airline pillow that Max surmised he’d swiped from first class on his incoming flight. He stretched out on his side and set his head down, then sat up again. He offered a right hand across the distance to Max.
“Charles Foster Danforth, retired pediatrician.”
Max clasped the hand with a well-exercised grip. “Max Wendt, pig tracker.”