Finding Abbey Road by Kevin Emerson

saw her through the blur of bodies in transit, a ghost world of identities between destinations, I almost cried. Little Val, lost sister, not to me, but still. Caleb broke into a jog, and the two of them hugged like family. I slowed my pace to get there a moment later.
    She hugged Caleb hard. Of course all she and I said to each other was, “Hey.” But it’s a hey that has history now. Miles in the van, fights, secret trips to old homes, and more miles to go. I feel closer to her than most of the people I’ve known a hundred times as long. I don’t know where she’s been these last few days; I’m just glad she’s here.
    â€œSo,” she said, “let’s do something crazy.” She slung her bag over her slight, wiry frame, brushed her newly lavender hair from her eyes, and we headed for the ticket counter.
    It turns out, Val’s passport identifies hers as Cassidy Elizabeth Fowler, and mine identifies me as Catherine Summer Carlson.
    And Caleb’s middle name is Richard?
    â€œNo dick jokes,” says Caleb.
    And so for the five minutes that we talk to the ticket agent, we are the children our parents named us, the models they created, only now our programming has evolved and grown sentient.
    We have gone rogue, and if any of them knew where we were now . . .
    If any of them knew.
    7:38 p.m.
    The security line is the last moment. We step to the man at his little podium and he runs our passports under his little blue light. Checks our tickets.
    I am so sure that we will be pulled aside, that officers will converge from unseen locations, that our parents are waiting for us somewhere nearby.
    But he just waves us on.
    They scan us, and though we are the bones and blood and dreams of our parents, we are also our own unique selves, and it turns out, we are allowed to dream and plot and defy and break, break, break the very rules of our universe.
    â€œWe are flying to London . . . , ” Val whispers as we walk together, the three of us, post-security.
    People dart around us, on their way to everywhere.
    â€œIs this really going to work?” she asks.
    â€œI think so,” says Caleb, his breath tight, too.
    We stop and check the Departures screen to be sure of our gate. We are flying Icelandair, because the only nonstop flights leaving tonight were sold out. Even that is some kind of amazing. On a random Monday in February, there are that many people who are traveling to anothercontinent, and London is only one city on one continent, one name in the L ’s on the huge departure board of possibility.
    There are so many possibilities . . .
    It feels like we can be anything.
    We are only tied down by our expectations and desires.
    Well, and let’s be honest, by our lack of fat envelopes of cash from slimy record labels.
    But still.
    Here we go.
    And it is something like all of the universe right there between your heart and your ribs.
    Holy shit.
    Yes!
    Despite all of the risk in what we’re doing, I am suddenly gripped by some kind of elation. Sheer terror? Perhaps. But it’s making me smile and I push against Caleb. He tugs me out of the fray of moving people. We stumble to the wall and crush against each other and make out.
    â€œUgh,” says Val from up ahead.
    â€œSorry,” Caleb says as he takes me by the hand and we catch up.
    â€œI’m so glad we’re not sitting together,” says Val. Her seat is a few rows behind ours.
    We all smile.
    And manage to eat burritos.
    And make it to the gate.
    8:50 p.m.
    â€œWelcome aboard, Ms. Carlson,” the gate attendant says to me.
    And we walk down the Jetway to our spacecraft.
    It turns out, we are flying to London!
    But hold on . . .
    There is one more thing to do.
    9:08 p.m.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, in just a moment we’ll be closing the forward door. Please take this opportunity to make sure all your devices are in airplane mode.”
    Caleb: Mom, I’m so sorry. Because of