4:09 A.M.

It’s 4:09 in the morning when I slide into the backseat of a black cab in Harlem.

I’m carrying two bags, a lukewarm coffee, and a life that still feels slightly under construction.

“Airport?” the driver asks.

“JFK.”

He nods and floors it.

Manhattan blurs past the windows in streaks of orange light and steam.

The city is barely awake, yet somehow deeply committed to being in this man’s way.

A delivery truck blocks one lane.

A man in a reflective vest is yelling at another man in a reflective vest.

A woman argues with herself on the corner.

Music thumps through scaffolding at four in the morning for reasons known only to New York.

None of it slows us down.

The cab jerks into another lane.

I grab the door handle.

He glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“You travel a lot?”

“Lately? Yeah.”

“For work?”

“Mostly.”

He nods.

Like that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

I’ve spent a lot of my life in transit.

Dallas.

Atlanta.

New York.

Airports.

Hotels.

Rental cars.

Packing for three days.

Staying gone for nine.

The cab speeds through Queens.

Outside, the city begins giving way to highway and airport signs.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

Then he shrugs.

“Hard to belong anywhere when you’re always leaving somewhere.”

I look out the window.

The strange thing is that after a while, movement starts feeling more familiar than staying.

Terminal.

Departures.

Terminal.

Departures.

The signs appear one after another in the darkness.

We pull into JFK.

It’s 4:32 a.m.

“Have a safe flight,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I grab my bags and head for Departures.