Follow the Ringleader

The loud screech of tires on the runway persuades me to lift my eyes from the book in my lap. I hadn't noticed that we were descending so quickly. But a few minutes ago I was viewing the white expanse below through the window. The woman next to me shuts her book with a thud and whispers something in her daughter's ear. The Girl Who Played with Fire. I haven't read that one yet. Pretending to look out the aerial porthole again, I shift my eyes toward my neighbor and her daughter. The daughter is fairly young; no older than 25, and her ringless finger attests to her general lack of spouse. Her mother, by contrast, is wearing a rather wide and fully diamond-adorned ring. It's no wonder that she's lugging around the jacketed hardcover edition of Stieg Larsson's novel. I disallow my eyes to loiter too long in their direction and look away. The image of her daughter, still curled up against the plane's walls, lingers in my mind. She has been sitting like that for at least four hours. Awake, I'm sure she's feeling cramped.
The spinning of the wheels reverberates through the cabin. The sound reminds me of when I would ride the old red wagon down the hill in front of my house. Every rotation of the wheels seems to be audible, right now and back then. Finally having found time, I lower my gaze back down to my book. I turn the page, seeing that the end of the chapter lies there. I turn it back determined to reach this chapter's end before the seatbelt light loses its orange glow.
Ping, and everyone stands up reaching for their luggage. I'm over 15 rows back and have no hope of exiting within the next five minutes, but the temptation to stand is too great. People begin hurriedly pulling their bags from the overhead compartments. As if they'll be able to escape any more quickly. I watch them carefully as I pull my backpack from under the seat and place each strap over a shoulder.
"Excuse me?"
My frame of thought broken, I glance toward the speaker and find the ringed woman next to whom I had been sitting for hours. "Yeah?"
"Do you see a black jacket there in the overhead?"
"Let me see," I casually tell her while glancing upward. I don't see it, but I hadn't expected to see it immediately. Having boarded first, I had watched where she laid it in the overhead. There's a camouflage bag where it had originally lain. I shove the bag aside and see her black jacket behind, crumpled against the rear of the compartment.
Yanking it out, I hand it to her. "Yeah. Here you go."
"Thank you."
"Yep."
She slides each arm into its sleeve and turns back toward her daughter. She has been sick, so her mother is inquiring as to her health. Her purse now rests in my former seat, so I lean into the chair in front of me.
As expected, each man and woman walks out as the narrow corridor vacates before them. Grabbing my black leather bag, I hold it perpendicularly before myself as I walk down the aisle; it knocking against my knees with each waddling step.
Out in the concourse, my brother fails to answer his phone. Preoccupying myself at the airport's Burger King, I stand behind its fabric railing determining whether or not I'm hungry enough to pay for a meal. While contemplating #3 I feel a tap on my left shoulder.
Turning, a middle-aged man is handing me something telling me that it's free. He walks off before I can request clarification, and looking into my hand I see a voucher of sorts. It's good for one free meal.
"It will work. Any restaurant here in the airport will accept it."
Turning back around, a jumpsuit-clad janitor is casting me a reassuring smile. "Really."