DEMETRIA

“Papá, really? You’re way too comfortable for someone with a flight in under an hour,” I said, shaking my head as I came out of my room, tugging on my light blazer. He was lounging like he owned the apartment, stretched across the couch with his legs crossed, a mug of coffee balanced in one hand and his phone in the other.

He glanced at me lazily and smirked. “¿Vuelo? No tengo vuelo.” Flight? I have no flight.

I froze. “What do you mean you have no flight? Your ...