It wasn’t the six-hour flight delay, or even the nine hours on the plane that did it; it was standing in the U.S. Customs line for over an hour and dealing with the accompanying bullshit that made Benjamin Cunningham finally explode.
Benjamin was tired; his neck hurt. He’d been in the airport in Amsterdam for the better part of a day before the flight. He habitually showed up three hours early for any international flight, and since he’d flown into Amsterdam late the night before, he’d wanted to be absolutely certain he didn’t miss the plane home to Minneapolis. So he’d woken up early, after three hours of sleep, thrown on a suit that had been neatly folded in the bottom of his luggage since the first day of his two-week trip, and gotten in a cab, eyelids fluttering and desperate for sleep.
When he’d gotten the notice that his flight had been canceled, he’d stifled the panic. Benjamin didn’t travel much, so it was a first for him. But this happened to travelers, right? Right. Still, it had been a gut punch, and he couldn’t control the helpless feeling that washed over him while he stood in the airport line for re-booking. His palms sweated, but he waited quietly for his turn without a word of complaint.
