The engines hummed in his bones.
Caleb sat still, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, the clouds broke like slow-moving waves, and below them, the ocean flashed silver. It caught the light in a way that reminded him of foil — like the glint off the old pizza tray from Gino's East.
That night.
They'd gone to the movies first — Caleb had begged for something loud and dumb, and Jack, already exhausted from a double shift, caved like always. He sat through the entire thing with his arms crossed and a straight face, only cracking a smile when the villain flew out of the helicopter yelling some dumb catchphrase.
Later, they walked three blocks in the cold for deep dish. Caleb could still feel the way the warmth hit him when they stepped inside — the clatter of forks, the hiss of sauce in cast iron, a booth that smelled like oregano and old vinyl.
His feet barely touched the floor. Jack took the olives off Caleb's slice without asking, just did it with two fingers and flicked them into a napkin.
"You eat like a raccoon," Jack said, grinning.
"You smell like one," Caleb shot back, his mouth full.
Jack laughed, leaning back against the booth. "Better than smelling like teenage regret and Axe body spray."
Caleb had tried not to smile, tried to act older, but the pizza was too good and Jack's jokes too dumb. They talked about superhero movies and if dogs could drive cars, and Jack promised they'd go see a Bulls game once the weather didn't suck.
It was one of those nights that stuck—not because anything big happened, but because nothing went wrong. Just warmth, pizza, and the easy rhythm of someone who knew how to show up.
The clouds swallowed the ocean.
Caleb blinked hard and leaned back.
He turned his face slightly from the aisle and closed his eyes.
The plane slowed, bumping onto the runway. Caleb sat still, hands folded, watching the cracked window fog over a little with his breath. Outside, Istanbul stretched out beneath him — a city sprawling, indifferent, and distant.
He grabbed his bag from the overhead bin, slung it over one shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle with the rest. The hum of the terminal filtered in before he stepped off, the low murmur of voices, footsteps on tile, the faint scent of coffee somewhere nearby.
He noticed a woman in a headscarf holding a child's hand. The child tugged, trying to keep up, their laughter soft and light. A small scene, ordinary and untouched by the weight he carried. For a moment, Caleb envied their normal.
His mind drifted—more out of habit than intent—back to Chicago. To his brother and June. To a pizza place with cracked vinyl booths, where the sauce was too thick and the crust was something you ate last, but only if you were feeling brave.
It was a quiet memory, but it pressed against the noise of the airport, a reminder that he'd been gone a long time. Too long.
He thought about how his brother was barely older than thirty when Caleb left, juggling work and a family that was still growing. And June — just eight then, stubborn and sharp-tongued. Would she still be the same? Would she remember him at all?
There was no rush, no plan laid out in his mind. Just the slow crawl of time and the way everything had shifted without him.
Caleb pulled the crumpled boarding pass from his pocket, the edges worn and stained from sweat. He stared at the blocky print — a cluster of letters and numbers—Terminal 1, Gate 27, Flight TK6—but the unfamiliar words and symbols on signs around him made his head spin.
He shifted the weight of his bag and squinted down a long corridor lined with unfamiliar characters and people moving fast in all directions.
Where the hell is Gate 27?
He swallowed, then approached a uniformed airport employee standing by a kiosk.
"Excuse me," Caleb said, voice low, "Terminal 1? Gate 27?"
The man shook his head and muttered something in Turkish. Caleb blinked, the words meaningless.
He tried again with a young woman walking nearby, speaking English slowly.
"Gate 27?" Caleb repeated, showing her the ticket. She shook her head, apologizing softly before hurrying on.
His jaw tightened. This wasn't how it was supposed to feel.
He took a breath, then wandered deeper into the terminal, the noise of announcements and chatter mixing with his thoughts.
Near a café, a man with a thick British accent sat reading a travel guide, a friendly smile on his face.
Caleb hesitated, then approached.
"You speak English?"
The man looked up, nodding. "Yeah, mate. You lost?"
Caleb nodded, holding up the boarding pass. "Trying to find my gate. Flight to JFK… I think."
The man chuckled. "Flight TK6? Turkish Airlines. Yeah, that's Gate 27, Terminal 1. You're headed back to New York."
Relief flooded Caleb's chest, subtle but real.
"Come on, I'm headed that way," the man said, standing. "Let's get you there before they start boarding."
The man adjusted his backpack, stepping alongside Caleb as they walked.
"So, what brings you to Istanbul?" he asked, curiosity clear in his voice. "Tourist? Business?"
Caleb shrugged, eyes scanning the crowd. "Army," he said simply.
"Right," the man nodded, slow smile. "On leave or something?"
Caleb hesitated a beat, then nodded. "Something like that."
The man gave a knowing look but didn't press.
Hell, even I don't really know why I said that, Caleb thought. Didn't feel like explaining. Guy doesn't seem like a bad one.
They moved through the crowd, the man chatting easily.
"Europe's a bit of a blur at this point," the man said, kicking at a loose tile. "Paris, Rome, Berlin… too many cities, not enough time. You ever been?"
Caleb shook his head. "No. Mostly just the States."
"Ah, well, you're missing out," the man grinned. "Though, I'll admit, Istanbul's something else. Crazy mix of old and new. You get a chance, you should check out the Grand Bazaar. Lose yourself for hours."
Caleb nodded, eyes flicking over the crowd. "Sounds like a mess."
"Depends how you look at it. Organized chaos is the best kind of chaos."
They passed a stand selling strong coffee. The man took a deep breath. "Ever try Turkish coffee? Tastes like dirt, but folks swear by it."
Caleb smirked just a little. "I'm more a granola bar and bad coffee kind of guy."
The man laughed. "Fair enough. Ain't no shame in that."
A lull fell between them as they weaved through the crowd.
"So," the man said, glancing over, "how long you been here in Istanbul?"
Caleb shrugged, eyes on the busy terminal ahead. "Literally just got off a plane."
"Ah, right," the man nodded. "Bit of a stopover, then?"
"Yeah," Caleb said, voice low.
The man scanned the crowd, then shrugged. "Busy place. Makes you wonder why anyone wants to travel at all."
Caleb nodded, eyes tracing the swirl of people. "It's not the travel I mind. It's the waiting."
"Waiting," the man echoed, flicking his wrist like it was some universal pain. "Always the worst part. Gates change, flights delay. You just sit, staring at the same damn walls."
Caleb's fingers tightened around his bag strap. "Makes you think about a lot of things you'd rather not."
The man gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Airports have a way of doing that."
They reached the gate just as the screen above flickered to TK6 – New York (JFK) – ON TIME.
"Well, here we are," the man said, patting his pockets absently like checking for a passport he'd already checked three times.
Caleb nodded, eyes on the boarding line starting to form.
The man glanced at his ticket, then held it up with a grin. "First class. Figure if I'm gonna get packed in a metal tube for ten hours, might as well pretend I'm somebody."
Caleb offered a thin smile. "Nice."
"You?"
Caleb held up his own boarding pass — faded, economy class, seat near the back. "Not that."
"Ah," the man said, without pity. "Well. Free drinks help, but it's still flying, right? Just with a better pillow."
Caleb gave a short nod. The kind that ends a conversation.
"Safe travels, mate," the man said, stepping toward the priority boarding lane. "Hope your time off's good to you."
Caleb didn't answer right away. Just watched him go, that easy stride, that lack of weight.
Then he turned back toward the economy line, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.
Caleb stepped into the line, boarding pass still warm from his hand. His shoulder ached from the bag, but he didn't shift it. Didn't want to fidget like he was nervous, even though he was. Not scared, just... unsteady. Like everything underneath kept shifting half an inch to the left.
The people ahead of him barely looked up. Just bodies shuffling forward — heads down, eyes dull. Everyone had somewhere to be. Everyone always did.
He stared past them, toward the tunnel leading onto the plane. That long, ugly hallway with the soft walls and the metallic groan under your feet. He remembered walking through one like it the first time he left home, when the uniform was new and he still thought being strong meant being quiet.
He wondered if June had ever flown.
The line crept forward again.