Wilson hated this responsibility. Trying to kill the thought, he clicked his pen twice, bit the end, and then shot it like a missile at a crossword puzzle that sat on his tray table below. He knew this.

His hands scribbled Xenophobic in bold letters. It had been a tough one. The ink was wet. He blew a gust at the page. Wilson loved puzzles. They distracted him. Otherwise, he became anxious.

I am not xenophobic, thought Wilson, trying to maintain distraction. He looked out the window from the cabin of Flight 756 from San Juan. By midnight, he would set down in Louisville, Kentucky.

He was right about the xenophobia. Wilson liked to be right about things. But at that instance in mid-air, no matter how hard he tried to piece it together, Wilson could not be right about one thing he had to get right: his father. Keep reading…