Gray-haired husband, gray-haired wife, floral print shirts over soft middles, cheap airport leis, department store bags in all four hands.
Stocky mom from Stockton. Hair without color brushed back and plastered into permanence with what looks like spray-on epoxy. White accountant's eyeshade, square green sunglasses. Built for strength: she'd be a Soviet Bloc athlete if she were healthy.
Which she's not. Slack-skinned, sallow. Can't walk, can't breathe. Everything about her speaks the word "death", as though "death" were a flashing neon sign written on her forehead. Lights up every few minutes, sharing her demise with her children, taking them with her, as well as all the people eating in the open-air restaurant downwind.
Heavyset college-age man, straw-colored mohawk, straw-colored hipster goatee, swept-back black shades. Slouched posture, seated in a black airport lounge seat with one hand on each open knee, staring stonily straight ahead.