Near Christmas time, I was on my way from Southern California to Kalamazoo, Michigan to visit my family. This trip was extra special to me, because my older brother was in the last stages of battling stage-four lung cancer. Every second that we could spend together was precious, so I was very frustrated when my next flight at O’Hare Airport was delayed due to weather.

While waiting at the gate, I struck up a conversation with a fellow traveler who was making his way from New Orleans to spend his holidays with his family in the Kalamazoo area. Although he was several years younger than me, we knew a lot of the same places and activities around the area where we grew up and had a grand time talking about anything and everything. We talked about what had led each of us to leave Michigan and what our lives and careers in our current home states were like, and I told him about how much this trip to spend the holidays with my brother for what I knew was the last time meant to me.

As we talked, the weather conditions in the air apparently worsened — even though I don’t recall it snowing — the flight kept being delayed, and finally, late into the evening, it was cancelled altogether. The airline offered nothing in the way of relief, there were no cars available to rent, and the flight was rescheduled for the next morning, about eight hours away. We were stuck in O’Hare overnight.

Since it was quite late and near the holidays — most travelers apparently got on their flights successfully — there were few food outlets still open. My new friend and I walked and walked through the massive airport until we found a coffee place, grabbed some food, and found a bench where to settle for the duration. I called my brother and told him about the delay, and couldn’t help but cry a few tears of frustration. My friend called his dad and they talked for a little bit, and we continued our conversation. Even though by that point we had been talking for hours, we weren’t running out of things to say, and I found myself thinking that if I were a few years younger and he didn’t have a girlfriend, this was a special man I would like in my life.

A while later, his dad called back, and my friend’s face lit up at the conversation. He turned to me and said, “Would you like a ride home?” His father decided that since the weather issues delaying the flights weren’t ones that affected driving, he was going to drive the two and a half hours to come to get his son. I gratefully accepted, then called my brother to let him know. He went all protective big brother on me and questioned, “Are you sure this person is okay?” I unhesitatingly replied yes, and in due time, the father arrived and drove us back to Michigan. My friend was asleep in the car when we arrived at my brother’s place. I quietly thanked the father and went upstairs to where my brother was still waiting up for me at three am.

I never got my friend’s full name and I never gave him mine, yet my few hours’ connection with him is one I will cherish for life. That holiday was indeed the last time I got to see my brother, as he passed away after a two-and-a-half-year fight the following February.

N, if you see this and remember, thank you and bless you.

(I am coming home from vacation with my parents. I am thirteen, and we have just gotten to the bag claim carousel.)

Me: “Hey, Dad, do you ever wonder who gets their bag first?”

(Misunderstanding my question, my dad thinks I mean what seat level.)

Dad: “Well, in [Popular Plane Brand] first class, they usually get theirs first because they sort the bags.”

(This goes on for a while until I figure out how to explain to him what I meant.)

Me: “No, I mean, after the fact, whose bag is the first to come out of the slot?”

(The carousel starts when I am in the middle of my sentence and I am in shock when I see what bag it is.)

Me: “I guess it’s mine.”

(My friend and her husband are traveling for vacation. My friend works for an international fast food company writing training manuals and tweaking ingredient amounts for certain food and drink items. They successfully make it through airport security and are gathering their belongings on a bench thirty feet away to head to the gate. When she is putting her laptop back in the case, she feels something odd inside. She pulls out a large ginsu knife.)

Husband: “Uh, honey? What is that doing in your bag?”

Friend: “Oh, my gosh! I forgot to empty my bag from the [Company] conference! I was doing a demonstration with the knife, and I put it in here to bring home and never took it out!”

Husband: “How did TSA miss that?!”

Friend: “I don’t know! What should I do?”

Husband: “There’s a trash barrel. Quickly! Put it in there!”

(They gathered their belongings, knife hidden underneath her jacket, ran up to the trash barrel, and threw it away. I wonder what else gets missed.)

I have flown to Washington DC with my grandma to meet my aunt. I am returning home by plane, as my home is over a thousand miles away. As a minor — I turned fifteen a month ago — I can bring in my relatively small suitcase, but I run into a problem at the security checkpoint where the fluid in my suitcase — a souvenir — is a problem, and I will have to check in the luggage. Okay, no problem.

I make my way back and notice my grandma, who has watched me through the security checkpoint, has already left before the problem and is most likely currently going through security at her own gate. My aunt dropped us off but did not come in with us.

I head over to the check-in service and wait in line, before finally coming up to the nice lady manning the station. I’m socially anxious, as well as hard of hearing — I wear hearing aids — so it takes quite a while for me to understand and do everything; this is my first time doing it without parental help. She tells me it will be a $20 fee.

My mother has given me my personal debit card and has told me to never let my balance go below $10. However, I have spent quite a bit on souvenirs, bringing the total on my debit card to $12. I do not know this, so I hand her the debit card and it is declined. Slowly, it starts to sink in that I do not have enough money. I’m starting to panic and start texting my mom. Again, being socially anxious plus hard of hearing means I can’t hear my mom over the phone.

A few minutes later, she hasn’t texted me. I’m just awkwardly smiling at the other passerby while trying so very hard not to cry. She finally texts me, and my heart plummets when I read it. She can’t transfer money to my debit card.

I don’t want to bother my grandma to come back through security. I don’t have any change. And I’m currently a thousand miles away from home with no way getting there. I start crying, trying to cover up my tears, and sobbing and apologizing profusely to the lady. She’s offering a smile but it’s hopeless; I can’t get back. I can’t get rid of the souvenir, either, because my grandma got it for me, and it included some other things.

All a sudden, the lady working in the next booth over speaks up and pays for it — all $20. I honestly can’t remember what happened because it was all such a haze, but I was either too dumbfounded to utter a thank-you that sounded sincere or was thanking her non-stop.

Thanks to that lady, whom I can honestly not thank enough, I got home safely. I will always forever be grateful for her, and even as I’m writing this, I’m fighting back tears. She has my undying thanks. I wish I could find her and pay her back the $20.

After the ordeal, my mom and I have vowed I will now keep at least $30 in my debit account, working to make $100 in there and keeping it in there.

Customer: “Hi, my laptop seems frozen and there is this huge flag on the desktop?”

Me: “Did you try rebooting the computer?”

Customer: “No, let me reboot.”

(A minute passes.)

Customer: “Okay, now it’s working but the flag won’t go away.”

Me: “Please give me your asset number. I will connect to you remotely and take a look.”

(Customer provided the number, I connected remotely and took a look at his desktop.)

Me: “Sir, there’s nothing to worry about. That’s just the Windows logo on your wallpaper…”