It's a stormy night with rain pounding heavy on the ground. Darkness creeps closer as streetlamps flicker on and off. I'm driving to the Los Angeles airport, faster than I should be—through the thick puddles, unable to control my excitement. I'm too anxious to see all five of my family members arrive.
I park my car in the temporary parking garage and race inside the baggage claim area. My hawk eye glances around each US Airways beltway expecting to see the tall slender body of my father sticking out among the crowd. Not seeing any sign of my family, however, I start walking towards the information desk when suddenly over the loud speaker I hear three emergency sirens. Afterwards, a woman starts speaking, "May I have your attention please. There has been an emergency with US Airways flight 622 from Charlotte. The aircraft has encountered serious problems during its landing. For more information, please report immediately to the US Airways counter on the second floor."
Serious problems? Huh? This can't be true, I tell myself. I turn left in horror, then turn right, then left again. Where’s the second floor? I feel my heart beating in my throat and my chest muscles tightening. People around me start screaming and running around, and I hear fire truck sirens approaching outside. I see the staircase 100 feet from me and sprint towards them. Upstairs is mayhem, with dozens of police officers trying to control the frantic crowd. The US Airways desk is invisible because of people trying to get their questions answered, so I decide to push my way closer to the departure gates by illegally pushing through the wrong way of the security exit gate.
I see people crying and pointing to the end of the runway, where thick black smoke rises from an aircraft smashed into the side of an aviation storage building. My hands cover my mouth as I gasp in horror. A hostile woman near me shouts at a police officer, "What do you mean? There have to be survivors. There have to be! Tell me there are!"
