David Foster Wallace

It's August 25th, and the boiling point of the fiercest heat-wave this Midwest college town remembers. That's what they've been telling themselves with her all morning. Even the pilot of her 7 a.m. flight on this low-cost casual airline makes a joke prior to landing - you know, something about the aluminum wings melting and 'our resulting preparations to crash-land into the mirage.' The older of the three stewardesses - the one wearing 2-inch nails and too much make-up in sharp contrast to hеr relaxed golf shirt, shorts and sneakеr uniform - laughs in nervous support, while the other two, clearly new-school flight attendants, ignore the joke altogether, playing a sort of catch with the collected in-flight headsets, and giving each other high-fives in preparation for the flight's end. It was at this exact moment that S.F.'s 45-year-old businessman seatmate leaned over for a third, and hopefully last, attempt to strike a conversation. "It's really gonna be hot out there!" he offers. "It even looks hot! Doncha think it looks hot?" S.F. just feigned sleep and (?) to ignore casual conversation this morning, keeping a promise to herself: not one word to anyone until the 1 p.m. meeting. She went to the (?), points to her throat, wrinkles her forehead and frowns, and then looks out into the supposed appearance of 'hot.'

I'm keeping you safe, keeping you safe and sick
Keeping you down, down so you won't flip
I'm keeping you safe, keeping you safe and sick
Keeping you down, down so you won't want it
When you fly away, if you fly away
If you fly away I will die
I will die, I will die
Keeping you warm, keeping you warm and worn
Keeping you down, down (and with no?) (?)

She steps onto the escalator and leans hard to the right side, out of the left lane foot traffic: a steady wave of (?) businessmen, (?) cell phones and (?) suitcases, struggling, rushing inches past her towards 8 a.m. breakfast meetings and Marriott Courtyard check-ins

When you fly away, if you fly away
If you fly away I will die
I will die, I will die

Sure enough, the final step collapses. S.F. steps aside to prepare herself to meet the day. She checks her backpack, unzips and pats down the red golf jacket and cleans out the pocket, transferring to her backpack a wallet, her keys, pen, a laminated canvas map, and a small notebook

At the bottom, she finds a base of change. As with everything, she thinks, (?) two quarters. S.F. waves one hand, and then the other, and then both. There's no response to her exaggerated, albeit silent, gestures. Clearly, the news clerk will not be distracted from the paralyzing draw of his knock-off watch (?). His elbows dig into the back counter; his chin's collapsed into his hands. His eyes are blind to anything other than the Weather Channel's panning landscapes of wilting vegetables, stumbling livestock, and (?). S.F. taps on the counter. She waves again. No luck. Eventually, she just leaves two coins, lifting one copy each of the three thin, rival local papers. She folds the print together under her right arm, steadies the binoculars on the strap across her neck and shoulders, and steps through the electric sliding doors into an invisible (?)