The wind cut across the expansive asphalt of the long-term parking lot at Toronto Pearson International Airport, carrying with it the biting, damp chill of a Canadian March. I adjusted my scarf, gripping the handle of my carry-on bag tighter. I had flown in from Vancouver on a red-eye, fueled by stale airline coffee and the warm anticipation of a surprise. It was my son Michael’s thirty-second birthday. I imagined the look on his face when I showed up at his doorstep—the shock, the laughter, the chaotic embrace of my twin grandsons, Nathan and Oliver.
It was supposed to be a good day.
But as I navigated the labyrinth of rows, searching for the rental car section, a flash of silver caught my peripheral vision. It was a Honda Civic, parked in the far reaches of the lot where the long-term rates were cheapest. It wasn’t the car itself that stopped me; it was the condensation. The windows were fogged heavily from the inside, the kind of moisture that builds up when bodies occupy a small space for too long in the cold.
