No Place Like Home
Our plane, en route to JFK airport, lost its weather radar and had to make an emergency landing in Detroit. Though no oxygen masks were deployed from the ceiling and no cheery attendants herded us through the side exits like
Flying By the Seat of My Pants
The summer I was fourteen, I crossed into Central America using a fake ID. It wasn’t the birth date on the ID that was fake (in Mexico, if somebody wanted to get their lips on a non-virgin pina colada, they