It was an early evening in the summer of 2019. I'd arrived at LAX with hours to go until my red-eye to Louisville. But even though I had plenty of time, I moved through the airport like a heat-seeking missile — past check-in, through security, down the long hall to my terminal. I found my gate, then kept walking, past the stores and the restaurants, looking desperately for somewhere to be alone. Finally, one terminal over, I found a quiet stretch of unused gates. I scanned the area so I could be sure that no one would hear what I was about to say. Then I pulled out my phone.
My wife picked up on the first ring. "How did it go?"
