Antarctica is Warmer Than My Home

My grandmother’s ninetieth birthday was supposed to be a grand affair. My father went so far as to hire a professional documentary crew to film a retrospective legacy piece about our family. But he forgot to register my name on the family roster. The director, clipboard in hand, was checking names to arrange everyone for the grand group photo, directing people to their spots one by one. When he reached my father’s branch, he called out four names. George, Patricia, Toby, and Hedy. I stood there waiting for ten seconds. The director looked over his shoulder at me, polite but dismissive. "Excuse me... are you with the catering staff? The family photo area is a bit tight. Would you mind stepping to the side so we can clear the frame?" Grandma Rose was sitting in the center on a velvet armchair. I tried to step behind her to find a place to stand. Mom caught my arm, smiling tightly. "Don't block your grandmother, sweetie. Why don't you head back to the kitchen and check if the chicken pot pies are ready?" Toby and Hedy knelt at Grandma's knees, holding up custom peach-shaped birthday cupcakes. Grandma stroked their hair, beaming. "Out of all my grandbabies, you two are my sweet little angels." Thirty-seven family members, arranged in three neat rows. The camera shutter clicked repeatedly, capturing their laughter. I stood by the kitchen doorway, watching the director adjust his monitor. On the screen, the title card read: Generations: The Legacy of Rose. I pulled out my phone and snuck a photo of the family portrait on his screen. It was a perfect picture, warm and crowded. There was absolutely no room for a thirty-eighth person. I plated the pot pies, pulled out my phone, and opened the email accepting my offer for the United States Antarctic Program. Their roster was complete. It was time to rewrite my own. 1 "Dawn, are the pies ready yet? Your grandmother is waiting." Mom's voice floated across the banquet hall, not quite shouting, but pitched at just the right frequency to reach me. And just the right volume to let everyone know that the person in the kitchen was there to work. I carried the tray out. Nine mini chicken pot pies, golden-brown and steaming, each topped with a delicate pastry leaf. As I passed the director, he was reviewing the footage he’d just shot. On his screen, three rows of smiling faces sat in perfect, seamless harmony. He glanced at me, then nudged his assistant. "Who did we hire for the kitchen help? She's quick." The assistant flipped through his papers. "Not sure. She’s not on the vendor roster." I set the pies down at the head table. I’d given Grandma’s pie an extra-large pastry leaf. Grandma didn’t look up at me. She was too busy talking to my cousin Tyler, Uncle David's son. "So Tyler, you got into the graduate program? Wonderful, wonderful. We have so many bright minds in this family." Tyler gave a shy, polite smile, and Aunt Molly quickly chimed in, "He got the presidential fellowship too, Grandma." Grandma patted Tyler's hand, beaming with pride. I stood beside them for three agonizing seconds. I thought back to last year, when I received my preliminary acceptance letter for the Antarctic Research Program. I’d posted a picture of it on social media with the caption: A new beginning. Dad didn't like it. Mom didn't comment. My brother, Toby, sent a brief text: Whoa, where are you traveling? Looks freezing. My sister, Hedy, didn't react at all. Eventually, I deleted the post. "Dawn, don't just stand there. Go clear the empty platters from table four," Mom called out again. Aunt Carol, sitting at the secondary table, watched me carry the heavy trays back and forth. Finally, she couldn't stay quiet. "Patricia, why is Dawn doing all the heavy lifting? Let the poor girl sit down and have a bite to eat." Mom smiled smoothly. "Oh, you know Dawn. She can never sit still. She’s been like this since she was a little girl. Don't worry about her." Aunt Carol looked at me, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something more, but she ultimately turned back to her plate. I heard Aunt Linda whisper to her under her breath, "Keep out of it, Carol. It's their family business." "But she wasn't even in the documentary shoot..." Carol murmured. Her voice was drowned out by a loud clinking of champagne glasses. Halfway through the reception, Hedy ran over to find me. "Dawn, did you eat yet? I saved you a slice of the cake." She handed me a small paper plate with a slice of the peach-shaped birthday cake. The frosting was already starting to melt, sliding off the side. I took it but didn't eat. "Thank you." "Dawn, I wanted to call you over for the photo, but Mom said there were too many people and we wouldn't all fit..." Her voice trailed off, growing smaller and smaller, as if she realized how hollow the excuse sounded even to her own ears. Three rows. Thirty-seven people. And one more would have broken the frame? Even Uncle David's housekeeper’s son had been pulled into the picture because Uncle David wanted the shot to "look full and prosperous." I had been standing right behind him, yet there was no room for me. "It's fine. Go back," I said gently. "It's time for Grandma to cut the cake. They need you." Hedy nodded, took a couple of steps, and then paused to look back at me. There was a tiny flicker of something in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or just a passing discomfort. But it was too light, too fleeting. By the time she took her next steps, she had already forgotten it. During the cake-cutting, the whole family gathered in a tight circle to sing. The director’s camera panned slowly from left to right, the warm event lighting illuminating every glowing face. I stood in the shadow of the kitchen door frame. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a confirmation email from the United States Antarctic Program. Dear Dawn Enoch, Your selection for the upcoming research expedition has been finalized. Please report to the departure terminal on the 28th of this month. The packing and gear checklist is attached below. Today was the 22nd. Six days left. I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket. In the banquet hall, the song reached its grand finale, everyone shouting in unison: "To ninety more years!" It was loud, joyous, and alive. In the quiet of the kitchen, I scraped the melted slice of cake into the trash. I wasn't hungry anyway. As the party wound down, Dad stood by the entrance, shaking hands and bidding farewell to the departing guests. When Tyler walked by, Dad patted his shoulder warmly. "Keep up the great work, Tyler. Our family’s future is in the hands of kids like you." I walked out the back door carrying two heavy bags of trash, crossing paths with Dad right on the loading dock. He glanced at me. "Just leave the trash by the bins. The cleaning crew will handle it tomorrow." He thought I was hotel staff. My own father thought I was a janitor. "Dad, it's me." He blinked, startled. Then he let out a flat, "Oh." And with that single syllable, he turned back around to say goodbye to the next guest. That night, back at the house, I closed my bedroom door and pulled my suitcase out from the very back of the closet. Six days. Not a moment more. In the room next door, Toby was playing video games, his muffled shouts leaking through the thin drywall. In the living room, Hedy was practicing the piano, playing the celebratory tune from the party. Out on the balcony, Mom was on the phone with Aunt Molly, talking about how beautiful the documentary was going to be. "...Oh, absolutely. That opening family portrait is just stunning. The director said they’ll print custom bound albums for everyone..." An album for everyone. In the album sent to our branch of the family, my face wouldn't be there. It didn't matter anymore. My phone buzzed again. It was a new notification from the expedition group chat. The team leader had posted a photo: seven people standing in front of an airport departure gate, holding up a banner with the program’s name. He wrote: First wave of team members has arrived. Just waiting on the final three. Dawn Enoch, we’ve got your spot saved for you. I stared at those words for a very long time. We've got your spot saved. I had waited twenty-three years to hear those words. It was just a shame they didn't come from my family. 2 "Dawn, make sure you pay the utility bills today. The card is on the entryway table." The next morning, Mom tossed the instruction over her shoulder on her way out, not even looking back as she slipped into her shoes. Toby emerged from the bathroom, hair dripping wet, tracking damp footprints across the hardwood floor. "Dawn, did you wash my white tee? I have a pickup game this afternoon." "It's on the balcony. Still damp." "Can you blow-dry it for me? I'm running late." He retreated to his room without waiting for an answer, entirely certain that I would do it. I went to the balcony, grabbed the shirt, and stood in the bathroom holding the hair dryer. The hot air made my wrists ache. Steam rose, blurring my reflection in the mirror until I looked like a person without any facial features at all. Halfway through, Hedy knocked on the door. "Dawn, can you steam my dress too? I have dance class today." "Can't you do it yourself?" "Last time I almost burned my hand. Mom said you should help me." I hung up Toby's shirt and went to iron Hedy's dress. It was a delicate chiffon, requiring the lowest heat setting. I had to press it inch by painstaking inch. Midway through, my phone rang. It was Frank, the expedition leader. "Dawn, we're still missing one of your blood work panels for the physical clearance. We need it by the day after tomorrow at the latest, or we’ll have to pass your slot to the runner-up." "I'll go get it done today." By the time I hung up, the dress was finished. Hedy took it from me, glancing at my screen. "Dawn, who was that? You sounded so professional." "Just a classmate." She nodded, not giving it another thought. In her world, my life probably boiled down to two essential functions: laundry and cooking. As for my departure to Antarctica, no one in this house had a clue. It wasn't that I wanted to keep it a secret. It was just that I knew exactly what would happen if I told them. Mom would say, "Stop chasing pipe dreams. Why would a young girl want to go all the way out there? Who’s going to help around the house?" Dad would offer his usual heavy silence. Toby would ask, "Antarctica? Is that like a vacation? Can you bring me back a penguin souvenir?" Hedy might say, "That's cool," only to be immediately cut off by Mom. And then, like everything else involving me, the entire subject would be swept aside as if it never happened. On my way to the clinic for the blood draw, the bus passed a massive billboard downtown. It was an advertisement for Hedy's dance studio. She was standing dead center in the photo, her smile sweet and radiant. Beneath the image was a line of text: Hedy Enoch, Citywide Youth Dance Competition Gold Medalist. The classes my parents paid for cost thirty-eight hundred dollars a semester. During my senior year of high school, I’d wanted to enroll in a college prep workshop. It cost a hundred and twenty dollars. Mom had said, "Can't you just study at home? Why throw money down the drain?" I ended up getting into an excellent university anyway. Nobody celebrated. The day my acceptance letter arrived, Mom was busy packing Hedy’s bags for a summer camp. I left the letter on the dining table. At dinner, Toby accidentally spilled half a can of Coke over it. When Mom wiped down the table afterward, she tossed the sticky, ruined paper straight into the recycling bin. I fished it out, tucked it inside an old textbook, and eventually took it to college with me. That old textbook was currently sitting at the very bottom of my suitcase. After the blood draw, I sat in the waiting room for the results. Next to me sat a mother and daughter. The girl looked to be about seventeen, pale and visibly unwell. Her mother kept gently stroking her hair. "Once we get the results, I’ll take you to that diner you love. We can get the loaded pancakes with extra whipped cream." The girl leaned her head against her mother's shoulder. "Mom, I want double chocolate chips too." "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want." I turned my head to look out the window. When the report came back, everything was normal. I took a photo and sent it to Frank. He replied almost instantly with an "OK" emoji and a quick message: Pack light. We have gear waiting for you. Don't bring too much. I typed back: Will do. When I got home, Mom was in the living room on a video call with my aunts, discussing the editing progress of Grandma's documentary. Aunt Molly's voice came through the speaker: "Patricia, you only put down four names for your household. The list says George, Patricia, Toby, Hedy. Isn't someone missing?" I paused in the entryway, one shoe half-off. My heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. Mom's voice was unwavering. "No, that’s correct. Just the four of us." Aunt Molly seemed to hesitate. "What about Dawn?" "Oh, she hates taking pictures. Every time a camera comes out, she pulls a face. She’d just ruin the aesthetic of the album." Aunt Molly didn't press further. A brief, heavy silence hung over the call before they moved on to discussing how to split the shipping costs for Grandma’s custom albums. I placed my shoes neatly in the closet, walked into my room, and shut the door. I stood pressed against the wood for a long time. Hates taking pictures. Pulls a face. Ruin the aesthetic. She had fabricated three separate excuses, all leading to the exact same conclusion: my absence from the family photo was entirely my own fault. That evening, Dad returned from his business trip. He brought back three gifts. For Toby, a pair of limited-edition sneakers. For Hedy, a professional sketch set. For Mom, a silk scarf. I sat across the dining table, watching him pull the items out of his suitcase one by one. Then, he stopped. The suitcase was empty. He zipped it up and set it by the bedroom door. He hadn't looked at me once. Toby paced around the living room in his new shoes. "Dad, these are sick. I'm definitely wearing them to my game tomorrow." Hedy tested the colored pencils on a blank sheet of paper, sketching a quick sun. "Look, Dad, do you like it?" Dad smiled, ruffling her hair. Mom draped the silk scarf around her neck, checking her reflection in the mirror. "The color is nice. Get me a narrower one next time." I stood up and began clearing the fruit peels and wrappers from the table. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Frank, posting the finalized gear list in the group chat. I glanced at it. Extreme-cold parkas, sleeping bags, safety goggles—all provided by the program. All I needed to bring was myself. This house didn't have room for me, but that frozen, desolate place at the bottom of the world did. And that was enough. 3 "Is this the parent of Dawn Enoch?" The call from my university was about a tuition waiver application that required a parental signature. Mom answered the phone. I was standing right there in the living room, listening to her talk to the registrar’s office. "Oh... Dawn? Yes, yes, I understand. I'll have her handle it." She hung up and tossed her phone onto the coffee table. "Dawn, the school mentioned some tuition form. Go handle it yourself. I don't understand that stuff." "They need a parent's signature." "Just bring the paper over later and I'll sign it." Just sign it. Like signing for an Amazon package. I printed out the form and left it on the dining table. It sat there for two days, untouched. On the third day, I brought it up. "Mom, the form..." "What form?" "The tuition waiver. I need your signature." She was busy sorting through Hedy’s dance competition registration papers, not even looking up. "Where is it? I didn't see it." The form had been sitting directly in front of her designated seat at the table. Right next to the napkin holder. She had stared at the napkin holder for three days, yet somehow failed to see the paper beside it. I slipped the pen into her hand. She scribbled a messy signature, the letters running together like a tangled thread. I took the paper back. The signature was crooked and careless—a stark contrast to the neat, elegant signature she had carefully penned on Hedy's registration forms. For Hedy’s papers, Mom had used her finest black gel pen, forming every letter with deliberate precision. Whatever. At least it was signed. After all, there were only four days left. That afternoon, we had a visitor. Mom's college friend, Mrs. Albright, dropped by with her teenage daughter. Mrs. Albright was the kind of person who was enthusiastic to a fault, showering compliments the moment she stepped through the door. "Oh, Patricia, Hedy is getting so beautiful! And her dancing is incredible. I saw that video you posted on Facebook—it had so many likes!" Mom smiled proudly as she poured tea. "Oh, she loves the spotlight. Takes after me, I suppose." Mrs. Albright then noticed Toby walking out of his room, letting out an appreciative gasp. "Is that Toby? Look how tall he’s gotten! He’s the spitting image of his father." Then she turned and saw me. I was coming out of the kitchen carrying a fruit platter. Mrs. Albright blinked, searching her memory. "And this is..." Mom took the platter from my hands, offhandedly saying, "Dawn, my oldest." The tone of those three words carried the same weight as if she were introducing a piece of standard living room furniture. Mrs. Albright’s face cleared. "Oh, right! Dawn! I remember you coming over to our place when you were little—" Her memory was clearly foggy, because she immediately pivoted back to Hedy. "So what style is Hedy practicing now? Latin or contemporary? My daughter wants to start classes..." I went back to the kitchen, leaving a small plate of sliced apples for myself. As I sliced, I heard Mrs. Albright ask from the living room: "Patricia, where is Dawn going to school? What's her major?" Mom’s response made my knife freeze in midair. "Oh, she’s studying... something environmental, I think. I can't quite remember the exact name." My major was Polar Ecology and Environmental Science. Only two universities in the country offered the program, and I was the only student in my year accepted as a first-choice applicant. But to my mother, it was just "something environmental." She could remember the names, teaching styles, and hourly rates of every single one of Hedy's dance instructors. She could remember Toby’s basketball schedule, the opposing teams, and his coach's favorite plays. But she couldn't remember the name of my major. And I was in my fourth year. Mrs. Albright’s daughter went to the bathroom and poked her head into the kitchen on her way back. "Are you cutting apples, big sister?" She was about thirteen or fourteen, with a round, cheerful face. "Yeah." "You cut them so pretty. They look like little rabbit ears." I handed her one of the apple rabbits. "Here, have one." She took it with a bright smile and ran back to the living room. Out in the hall, Mrs. Albright was talking to Mom about vacation plans, mentioning she wanted to take her daughter to see penguins. "Antarctica seems so out of reach for regular people, though. It’s just so far." Mom scoffed. "Why would anyone want to go to a place like that? It's just asking for misery." I put the knife down and wiped my hands. Misery. She would probably never understand that the place she equated with misery was the only place in the world I desperately wanted to be. That evening, Dad posted a link in the family group chat. It was the trailer for Grandma's documentary. The two-minute clip was beautifully edited. It opened with the family portrait, zooming in on each of the thirty-seven smiling faces. The background music was a gentle, swelling piano melody. A voiceover introduced each branch of the family, speaking of legacy and continuity. When it reached our branch, the voice intoned: George, Patricia, Toby, Hedy. Four names, paired with four radiant faces. The group chat exploded. Uncle David sent a round of applause emojis. Aunt Carol chimed in: "It's absolutely beautiful!" My cousin Tyler posted a string of firework emojis. I watched the trailer twice. I watched every single frame. At the forty-seven-second mark, in the bottom-left corner of the screen, there was a blurry, fleeting shadow of a person carrying a tray, walking out of the frame. That was me. My sole contribution to the family legacy was a blurry silhouette of someone leaving. I took a screenshot and saved it to a hidden folder on my phone. The folder contained eighteen years of family photos I wasn't in, a college acceptance letter stained with soda, a signature that looked like a scribbled snake, and now, a blurry shadow on a screen. I didn't keep these as evidence for a future trial. I kept them as a reality check. To remind myself: You aren't misremembering. You aren't exaggerating. You aren't being dramatic. You have been invisible for twenty-three years. That is a fact. Four days left. Before bed, Toby suddenly sent a message to the group chat: "The video looks great, but we’re missing someone." My heart leaped into my throat. A second later, Toby's next text popped up: "Dylan wasn't there. Real shame." Not me. He was talking about our cousin, Uncle Rick's son, who couldn't make the trip. Mom replied: "Dylan is studying abroad. We'll get him in the next one." We'll get him in the next one. What about me? Was I studying abroad? I was standing right there in the doorway of the kitchen. I was physically in the room. My phone screen went dark. I rolled over, facing the wall. 4 "Dawn, did you take my gray jacket?" Hedy stood at my door, holding an empty hanger. "No." "I can't find it anywhere, and I need it for next week. My dance instructor said a gray base layer looks best on camera." "I didn't take your clothes, Hedy." She eyed me skeptically before turning on her heel and heading to Mom's room. Through the thin walls, I heard her complain: "Mom, Dawn says she doesn't have it, but it’s definitely not in my closet." Mom's voice floated back: "Look again. If you can't find it, just wear Dawn's gray hoodie. It's basically the same size." Hedy murmured something in agreement, followed by the sound of Mom's approaching footsteps. Mom pushed open my door. She didn't knock. She never did. "Dawn, let Hedy borrow your gray hoodie for a couple of days. She needs it for her competition next week." It wasn't a request. It was an order. "I bought that hoodie with my own money." "It's just for two days. It's not like she's going to ruin it. Why do you always have to be so difficult with your sister?" She was already rummaging through my closet. I sat at my desk, motionless. I watched her hands pull the gray hoodie from my neat stack of clothes, dragging my suitcase slightly out of the shadows at the bottom of the closet. My heart skipped a beat. But Mom didn't notice the suitcase. She only saw what she was looking for. She held up the hoodie, measuring it against herself. "Yeah, this shade is fine." She turned and walked out. I slowly closed the closet door, pushing the suitcase back into the darkest corner. Three days left. I couldn't afford any mistakes. That afternoon, while I was double-checking my packing list, Frank called again. "Dawn, your flight for the 28th is confirmed. You depart at 2:30 PM. How long will it take you to get to the airport from your place?" "I'll head out three hours early. I'll just take an Uber." "Sounds good. Does your family want to drive you, or should we arrange a shuttle?" "No need. I'll handle it myself." Frank didn't push. He probably assumed I was just fiercely independent, the kind of person who didn't need a tearful airport send-off. What he didn't know was that it wasn't a choice. There was simply no one to send me off. When I hung up, shouting erupted outside my door. Toby and Hedy were fighting over the TV remote in the living room. Toby's voice was booming: "I was here first!" Hedy fired back: "You’ve been playing games all afternoon! It's my turn!" Mom emerged from the kitchen to play peacemaker. "Toby, let your sister have the TV. She has a big competition the day after tomorrow. She's stressed." Toby grumbled but ultimately threw the remote onto the couch. Throughout the entire exchange, no one came to ask if I wanted to watch anything. But then, I never watched TV in the living room anyway. Not because I didn't want to, but because the couch only had room for three people. The fourth spot was always occupied by Hedy's dance bag. For dinner, Mom made sweet and sour pork, steamed sea bass, and garlic broccoli. The pork was Toby’s favorite. The sea bass was Hedy’s favorite. The broccoli was a healthy choice Dad insisted on. What did I eat? I ate the leftovers. By now, I didn't even have to ask. I had grown accustomed to waiting until they had taken their portions, picking through the broken, discarded pieces left on the serving platters. During dinner, Dad casually remarked: "The director sent a message. The final cut of the documentary will be ready next month. They're sending USB drives to everyone." Mom beamed. "I can't wait to share it on social media. Let everyone see what a beautiful family we have." Toby chimed in: "Did they get my good angle? I made sure to pose." Hedy giggled. "The director told me my smile was the most natural." I kept my head down, chewing quietly. Dad turned to Mom. "By the way, the director asked if we left anyone out. He said we can still add them in post-production if we need to." I looked up. Of everyone at the table, I was the only one who did. Mom thought for a moment. "No, I think we got everyone. Dylan couldn't make it, but since he's out of the country, we can't really do a reshoot for him anyway." "So yes, everyone is accounted for." Everyone. Thirty-seven people. Accounted for. I looked at Dad's face, then at Mom's. Their expressions were perfectly serene. This wasn't a malicious omission. It wasn't a cruel punishment. They had simply, entirely, forgotten I existed. The sound of my chopsticks hitting the edge of my bowl was slightly louder than intended. Hedy glanced at me. Toby didn't notice. My parents went back to discussing which mailing address would be most convenient for the USB drives. "I'm finished," I said. I carried my bowl to the kitchen, washed it, dried it, and put it back in the cabinet. Every movement was silent and deliberate. As I closed the kitchen door, I caught the reflection of the living room in the glass window. Four people sat bathed in the warm, golden light of the television, laughing together. It was the exact same image as the portrait in the documentary. Complete. Warm. Seamless. With absolutely no room for me. Back in my room, I pulled out my suitcase for one final inspection. ID, credit cards, phone charger. Two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste. The old textbook containing my university acceptance letter. And the digital folder on my phone. That was it. Twenty-three years of life, packed down into a single bag of belongings that actually belonged to me. At 4:00 AM on the 28th, when my alarm went off, the entire house was shrouded in deep sleep. I dressed quietly, pulling my suitcase down the dark hallway. I passed my parents’ room; the sound of steady, even breathing drifted through the cracked door. I passed Toby’s room; his computer screen was still on, casting a flickering light across the floor. I passed Hedy’s room; the gold-embossed certificates from her dance competitions gleamed on her door. I didn't stop. I didn't turn on the entryway light, stepping into my shoes in the dark. As the wheels of my suitcase rolled over the threshold, they made a faint, soft click. I looked back one last time. The hallway was pitch black. No lights turned on. No voice called out, "Where are you going?" The front door clicked shut behind me. I headed downstairs. The Uber I’d ordered was already waiting at the curb. The city at four in the morning was incredibly still, the streetlights stretching my shadow into a long, thin line. The driver hopped out to load my bag into the trunk. "Heading to the airport, miss?" "Yes, please." The car pulled away, merging onto the empty highway. In the rearview mirror, not a single light was on in our building. The last message on my phone was from Frank: Airport Terminal 2. Give me a call when you get here, I’ll be waiting in the departure lobby. I muted the family group chat. I didn't leave it. Leaving would trigger a notification, and they would notice. Instead, I just muted the alerts and dragged the chat to the absolute bottom of my archive. To a place where it would never catch my eye. Just like me. The car sped down the highway, the streetlights flashing past the window like a blur of falling stars. We arrived at the airport. Standing outside Terminal 2 were several people. Frank was holding up a small sign with the program's logo. When he saw me, he smiled. "Dawn Enoch?" "That's me." "Welcome to the team. Come on in, we’ve got your spot ready." He stepped aside, clearing a space for me in the middle of the group. The other team members nodded and offered warm hellos, and someone reached out to take my suitcase for me. "Let's go. Gate is just ahead, timing is perfect." I followed them into the terminal. Security, boarding gates, the jet bridge. By the time I sank into my seat, the first light of dawn was breaking over the horizon. The plane began to taxi. The roar of the engines grew deafening, the immense force pressing me deep into the seat. The ground shrank. The city shrank. That building, that street, that home that had no place for me—it all dissolved into a tiny, grey speck outside the window. And then, it was gone.