An 18-year-old that needs help in the airport — honestly!

Iam going to Boston. Miriam and her family are sitting shivah. By some sort of dark luck, I just finished the bulk of everything yesterday, so really all that’s left is to hang the posters around the school — and that was going to be Nechami’s job anyway; I can barely tell left from right.

As my father hands me the ticket, I stare at the mumbo jumbo of little, black, ant-like letters on it, and I start to panic.

“Daddy — I can’t travel!” I remind him, feeling my heartbeat quicken.

My father starts, and then gives a long sigh. I am right — I won’t get past check-in, with the most of luck. I can’t read; I do not have good spatial orientation — I get lost in unfamiliar places. I am so bad at directions. I will have no idea where to go, what gate to take, where my flight is, where my seat is — it’s funny how the world is so unhelpful for people like me sometimes.

Now I am stranded. Miriam needs me. I need to be there. But my parents can’t take me, it’s Erev Pesach.

“I’ll just ask at the airport for help,” I suggest after a minute in thought. “Surely I’m not the first teenager who travels without knowing how to read….”

My father is drumming his fingers on the table, thinking. Then he goes into his study and locks the door. I stand in the hallway, holding tight to my little suitcase. My flight is in four hours. We need to leave now!