The plane touches down, most of us bored within the miracle that is modern jet travel, and I look out the window at the Charlotte airport at dusk.
Beside the jetways, several barely decipherable machines lurk in the gathering darkness, their inert bulks sulking with nothing to do.
For a moment, I flash that they are animals of some kind, grazing in the grassland of North Carolina, or camels maybe, and for a moment, I'm back on the plane coming in to Marrakech.
Years of flying back and forth to Arizona come back to me, too, and I say to Katie, "Whenever I fly, I'm used to landing in the desert."
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