Stepping outside from baggage claim, she saw and felt it: the unmistakable quality of the light, that stretched-out, faded blue, the air that wasn’t desert dry but still slightly astringent. She scanned the curb for the town car that was supposed to pick them up. “Does it feel good to be home?” Michelle turned. Caitlin stood slightly behind her, hand resting protectively on her suitcase, which sat on the luggage cart. They could have done without the cart, really; the things cost $4.00, and Caitlin’s wheeled suitcase wasn’t even that big. But Caitlin had insisted. “Oh, hon, I don’t feel like dragging that thing around. Let’s just get a cart.” She’d drunk a few glasses of wine on the plane, and Michelle suspected she’d also taken whatever it was she took for anxiety; she had that blurred quality to her, like a charcoal drawing that the artist had slightly smeared. Michelle smiled.
