Laurel toed Brian’s watch and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want that? It looks expensive.”

Brian grinned, shook his head, and kissed her forehead. The smell of her hair was amazingly sweet. He felt more than good; he felt reborn, every inch of him new and fresh and unmarked by the world. He felt, in fact, that if he spread his arms, he would be able to fly without the aid of engines. “Not at all,” he said. “I know what time it is.”

“Oh? And what time is that?”

“It’s half past now.”

Albert clapped him on the back.

They left the boarding lounge in a group, weaving their way through the disgruntled clots of delayed passengers. A good many of these looked curiously after them, and not just because some of them appeared to have recently suffered nosebleeds, or because they were laughing their way through so many angry, inconvenienced people.

They looked because the six people seemed somehow brighter than anyone else in the crowded lounge.

More actual.

More there.

Shooting stars only, Brian thought, and suddenly remembered that there was one passenger still back on the plane — the man with the black beard. This is one hangover that guy will never forget, Brian thought, grinning. He swept Laurel into a run. She laughed and hugged him.

The six of them ran down the concourse together toward the escalators and all the outside world beyond.