“I’m sorry,” the airline employee said with a polite smile. “Your flight is delayed.”

It was the third time my flight had been delayed on the same day. I was alone. I had been trapped inside the Fayetteville airport since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. My clothes were wrinkled. My stomach was growling. I had already lost 14 pounds.

I had tried renting a car and driving home, but all rental cars were sold. I had tried to schedule another flight with a different airline, but other airlines had no flights to Birmingham. I now had Stockholm syndrome, I just wanted to please my captors.

“Please let me go home,” I said to the attendant.

“We’re working hard to resolve the issue, sir,” she said, passing the emery board over her nails again.

Finally, after several more hours, it was time to board our plane. It was late. The stars were out. Customers awoke from their sleeping positions on the floor. Several airline passengers had already stripped down to loincloths and were cooking over campfires in Concourse A.

We found our seats in the small plane. And, in strict adherence to FAA regulations, there were at least three screaming babies onboard, one flu victim, and the guy next to me had a case of thermonuclear b.o.

But it was not to be. Before the preflight monologue, we learned that our plane had a serious malfunction. The captain said we needed a repairman. But, as it turned out, all aviation mechanics in the state of Arkansas had recently been executed.

Everybody off the plane.

We would likely spend the night in the airport, foraging for food in trash bins, fashioning makeshift pillows out of our own shoes. I called dibs on the last patch of bare linoleum.

That was when I met Tracy. She was the passenger across the aisle from me. Amazingly, she recognized me.

“Are you Sean?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” I replied. “Now I am Delta passenger number 267H6TRPN.”

“I knew it was you!”

Tracy knew me. She was from Birmingham. She had read my stuff. Her family had even attended my shows. Tracy had kin in Arkansas. They were coming to get her. She offered me a ride. I could’ve cried.

Within moments we were standing on the curb in the humid Arkansas night, waiting for Tracy’s ride.

When the car arrived, it was Tracy’s sister and 87-year-old mother, Mimi (Meme?). We all hugged. We got our picture made.

Meme insisted I ride up front, sitting on the air-conditioned seat cushions. A finer feeling my fundaments have never experienced.

Tracy’s sister Karen drove half an hour out of her way, weaving through the wilds of the Natural State, to carry me to a hotel. We all laughed. We all talked. And it felt like we’d known each other for years. I heard about Meme’s nine great-grandchildren. I heard about their families. Meme took some more pictures.

And when they deposited me at the hotel doorstep, these sweet women God-blessed me, wished me well, and took turns hugging me tightly. I was so overcome I didn’t know whether to weep or wind my watch.

I watched their taillights wink off into the starry night. And as I stood there alone, I looked deep into the heavens and realized I wasn’t.