It was already dark. Shawn’s instructions were to make his way through the terminal toward the center. There he should find his liaison officer, Lieutenant James Winston. He didn’t have a picture, but the paper said Winston knew what Shawn looked like and would be holding a sign with his name. Shawn weaved his way through the multitude in that general direction. He saw a number of military personnel, but no one standing still or holding a sign. He looked at his watch to confirm he wasn’t late or early. He set his bag and briefcase on the floor, then laid his overcoat over them. As he looked around, he noticed a photo machine off in the corner, one of those little booths where you get three pictures for fifteen cents. He suddenly remembered he’d forgotten to bring a picture of Patrick. He’d have to call Miss Townsend and fix that. Fifteen more minutes passed. He was just about to head to the men’s room when he heard someone call his name from the front of the terminal. He turned and saw an officer waving, slicing his way through the crowd.
