stood beneath buzzing fluorescent lights, all glass doors and cracked tile, with a schedule hanging crooked near the entrance. The air smelled of wet wool, burned coffee, old cigarettes, and metal.
A security guard sat behind scratched glass with a paper cup beside his elbow.
I did not ask him anything yet.
I already knew where to search.
Marcus had spoken of the terminal as though describing a place to dump trash.
Bay 6 was outside beside the curb.
The automatic doors slid open and released warm air against my
