I decided to chance the flight. What could go wrong?

T

he flight was scheduled for 6:20 a.m. originally. She had booked it back in October, when the winds were still somewhat warm, and the russet leaves whispered to each other on the trees. Jackets were dusted off and worn as fashion statements, not necessities, and she smiled optimistically as she clicked “Submit payment.” January fifth sounded like a nice, safe date from that side of December.

She idled the duration away in blissful naivete. Having marked the date on her calendar and made the requisite phone calls, she now had nothing to do but look forward to seeing her seminary friends, who had been nudging her about this for over a year, or, in productive moods, to fret pleasantly about the weight of self-imposed responsibility.

October faded into November faded into December, into January. Now there was a bite in the air, occasional snowfall. Then a glorious storm dropped luxuriously into her lap one Monday, the perfect day for lounging around.

Thursday, January fourth, the eve of the flight. She sits at the kitchen island, absorbed in a magazine, mindlessly consuming her lunch. It is macaroni, which she had cooked and stored several days before, and as she turns a page, she is enjoying a comfortable sense of being well-prepared, in that moment, for any eventuality.

Enter the lady of her boardinghouse. She looks to be in a schmoozy mood. “Did you hear about the snow tonight?” she wants to know.

“No,” the girl responds placidly, because all is right with the world when you are halfway through a bowl of warm macaroni.

“Oh, well, it’s supposed to snow tonight. I thought you might want to know. In case you had plans or something.”