Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
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January 1986
George can still hear the beat of "Blue Monday" in his head.
His steps follow it—130 beats per minute. Step-strut-step. He hears the bass line, a driving march as he quickly makes his way down the terminal.
Kathryn grabs her things and throws some coins on the table. She looks at the people watching—they, too, are following the commotion.
Kathryn, arms full, chases after George.
The man—the gawker—is on his feet. He seems caught between deciding whether to follow or leave it alone. But he's just seen a car crash at the airport.
George's pace is nearly a run as he continues. The planes outside look to be standing still as the windowpanes and gates whip by. Gate 18. Gate 20. Gate 22. He's closing in on the gate to Phoenix, still unsure of what he’s going to do.
George stops short, breathing hard and looking around. Should he keep going or turn down into the next terminal? Should he open one of the alarmed doorways and run full tilt onto the tarmac?
There’s a crowd gathering around a small TV in the corner. The seating area is starting to empty as more people join. George hears someone say, “Turn it up!” The passengers at the gates drift away, waves of people moving toward the television.
The fluorescent overhead lights flicker, the harsh glare melting into a soft, green-tinged haze. George feels a blast of humid air as it cuts through the stale, cold air of the airport. For a fleeting second, he isn't there—dense jungle presses close, leaves brushing his face. The carpet beneath his feet shifts, the repeating pattern turning into tendrils of roots and mud around his shoes. Then, through the trees, a glimpse: a beach, endless and brilliant, the crash of waves echoing in his skull…
He gasps. The scene snaps back. Back to the airport buzz, the repeating pattern of the carpet—but he feels... different. He feels a flicker of something wild, untamed.
He swerves to a gate ahead—not Phoenix—to the one next to it.
George rushes up to the gate agent, a petite woman wearing a smock with the airline logo embroidered on it in two-tone shades: AtlasQuest. She has a face that looks too young for the starched ascot below her chin. George looks at her name tag: Annie. Her eyes meet George's, briefly, but she’s distracted by the TV.
“Annie, I need help,” George pants.
George pushes his ticket at the woman and holds her hands with his. She’s struggling with what to do, this kid closing the space between them. George looks over his shoulder. Kathryn is closing in behind. Somewhere behind, the man is following her, too.
"How can I help?" Annie, the gate agent, says, stumbling over the abruptness of George’s approach.
He steps closer, talking in gulping breaths, watching the hair on the side of her face move. In a hoarse whisper, he says, "See that woman behind me? That's my mom.”
Annie’s eyes flick to Kathryn, to George, to the TV next to the gate. George looks, too, watching for Kathryn, then back at the agent.
“The guy behind her is my stepdad—he's not a nice guy. He's going to be on our plane."
George's heart is beating through his chest. He can feel the sweat on his forehead. He pushes it hard, willing it down his temples, trying to sell the story. It's a gamble.
"Can you help us, Annie?"
The agent looks at the ticket, but only briefly. She’s distracted by the TV, volume turned all the way up, loud:
"The Space Shuttle Challenger, carrying seven crew members, including civilian schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe, has exploded shortly after liftoff over the coast of Florida..."
Annie looks at the ticket again, wincing. George isn’t sure what it means. This is clearly not their flight. He continues to hold her hand, his grip pleading but not constraining. She looks over the boy’s shoulder as Kathryn runs up.
"George?" Kathryn says. She looks to the gate agent, a moment of apology crosses her face—a mother who doesn’t know how to react.
George feels the moment at a tipping point, he needs to up the ante.
Swallowing hard, his eyes beg as he leans closer to the agent and whispers, "He hits her." George watches the hair on Annie’s neck stand, reaching, electrified.
Flustered, Annie’s eyes flit between George and his mother, clearly flustered and out of breath… and the man standing at the edge of the seating area. He's a big man, Annie thinks, maybe a former college football player gone to pasture. His meaty arms are crossed over his belly, ticket in hand, eyes scrunched trying to see exactly what's happening. She sees the man step closer, craning his neck to hear but keeping his distance. He’s nearly the only one not looking at the TV.
"One moment," Annie says in a practiced, calm tone, stepping back, giving herself a little distance.
Composing herself, she looks between George, the man standing behind, and what’s happening on the screen.
Kathryn turns George around. "What are you doing?” She’s not sure if she needs to pull him back out of the way, a mother yanking her son out of traffic.
Studying them for a moment Annie picks up a phone from the desk, dialing.
"I—I don’t know. Something," George says. His whisper is more adult than she’s ever heard.
"Security to gate B24," Annie says, putting the phone down.
Annie turns to Kathryn, her hand outstretched for the ticket. Her initial shock gives way to a more composed, practiced expression. She scrutinizes the tickets closely, gaze shifting between the names printed on them and the anxious faces before her.
George flashes to a late night movie. Gah—what’s the name of it? A drug smuggler goes through the customs line, he’s sweating, he tries chewing gum to take the nerves off. You can hear his heart beat as he stands in line to board the airplane. He’s almost there, just a few steps away from freedom. Then, he gets pulled out of line and searched. They pull away his clothes to find drugs under his belt.
The sweat is now pouring off George's head and circling down to his chin. He wonders which face the light is casting on him at the gate: comedy or tragedy?
Officious, Annie, the gate agent, moves to block the jetway as two uniformed airport police arrive behind them. George swallows hard, looking over his shoulder at the badges, noticing their shine. He watches one officer grip the pepper spray on his belt, releasing the leather strap holding it in place.
George's shoulders drop—defeated. His backpack slides down the edge of his shoulder as he turns to Kathryn. The words “I’m sorry” are nearly on his lips when his arm is squeezed by the gate agent. With one motion, she reaches out, pushing the two of them into the jetway behind, her eyes fixed on the airport police.
George stumbles forward, eyes wide. Ahead, the jetway opens into a long tunnel, empty and beckoning them forward. He glances back one last time; Annie's eyes are firmly on him as she quietly says, “Go.”
Behind them, Kathryn watches the man—now just a gawker—struggling with the police, while the news captivates the rest of the crowd, oblivious to the drama at the jetway. As the door to the terminal closes on the jetway behind them, they can hear the officers' voices, distant but clear: “Sir, can we have a word with you?”
Pulling at the bundle of her winter coat and purse, Kathryn runs to keep up with George as he moves quickly down the long walkway.
"Where are we going?"
George shoulders his backpack, pulling it close to his body. He looks at her, unsure of what he’s just done—but it feels different this time. Way different. And good. Not like running. Not exactly. The pattern had always held, but something just broke sideways.
As they reach the plane, George pauses at the cabin door.
All he can say is, "Mexico?"
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A compulsive action broke the mold, forcing George and Kathryn into a new life. What a cool way to get George to Mexico. Well done, J.
"Something just broke sideways." Man, I'll say! Thrilling writing, J. Thanks.