The plane shook and shuddered, and Shadow wondered, coldly  and idly, if he was going to die. It seemed possible, he decided, but unlikely. He stared out of the window and watched the lightning illuminate the horizon.
Then he dozed once more, and dreamed he was back in prison and that Low Key had whispered to him in the food line that someone had put out a contract on his life, but that Shadow could not find out who or why; and when he woke up they were coming in for a landing.
He stumbled off the plane, blinking into wakefulness.
All airports, he thought, look very much the same. It doesn’t actually matter where you are, you are in an airport: tiles and walkways and restrooms, gates and newsstands and fluorescent moncler kids lights. This airport looked like an airport. The trouble is, this wasn’t the airport he was going to. This was a big airport, with way too many people, and way too many gates.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
The woman looked at him over the clipboard. “Yes?”
“What airport is this?”
She looked at him, puzzled, trying to decide whether or not he was joking, then she said, “St. Louis.”
“I thought this was the plane to Eagle Point.”
“It was. They redirected it here because of the storms. Didn’t they make an announcement?”
“Probably. I fell asleep.”
“You’ll need to talk to that man over there, in the red coat.”
The man was almost as tall as Shadow: he looked like the father from a seventies sitcom, and he tapped  something into a computer and told Shadow to run-run!-to a gate on the far side of the terminal.