The Meal Thief: When Karma Takes Flight

Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Flight

The alarm clock’s shrill cry pierced through my hotel room at 4:30 AM, dragging me from what felt like five minutes of sleep. I groaned, rolling over to slap the snooze button, but my phone was already buzzing with notifications. Three missed calls from my assistant, two urgent emails from clients, and a text reminding me that my Uber would arrive in forty-five minutes.

Welcome to my life as a marketing consultant.

At thirty-five, I’d been traveling for work for over a decade, and the glamour had worn off somewhere around my thousandth airport security line. What used to feel exciting—new cities, fancy hotels, important meetings—had become a blur of departure gates, rental cars, and conference rooms that all looked exactly the same.

But this trip was different. This wasn’t just another client meeting or routine presentation. The Digital Marketing Innovation Conference in Los Angeles was the biggest event in our industry, and I’d been selected to present our agency’s groundbreaking campaign for a major tech startup. It was the kind of opportunity that could make or break a career, and I’d been preparing for months.

The pressure was amplified by the fact that I had a pre-conference meeting scheduled in San Diego with a potential client who could single-handedly double our agency’s revenue. The timing was impossibly tight—land in LA, catch a connecting flight to San Diego for the meeting, then fly back to LA for the conference the next morning. My boss had called it “aggressive scheduling,” but I preferred to think of it as efficient.

I stumbled through my morning routine in the generic business hotel room, double-checking that I had everything: laptop, presentation materials, business cards, phone chargers, and the lucky pen my grandmother had given me years ago. Everything was packed with military precision in my carry-on bag. I’d learned long ago never to check luggage when connections were tight.

The Uber driver was chatty, which normally I would have appreciated, but my mind was racing through the day ahead. I went over my presentation notes one more time, mentally rehearsing key points and anticipating questions. The San Diego client, Peterson & Associates, was notorious for being difficult to impress. They’d cycled through three marketing agencies in the past two years, and I was determined to be the one who finally satisfied them.

JFK Airport was its usual chaos of early morning travelers. Business people like me, clutching coffee cups and checking phones, mixed with vacationers dragging oversized suitcases and looking bewildered by the departure boards. I navigated through the crowds with practiced ease, my carry-on wheeling behind me like a faithful dog.

Security was surprisingly quick for a Tuesday morning, and I found myself with an extra twenty minutes before boarding. I used the time to grab a large coffee—my third of the day already—and find a quiet corner where I could make some last-minute calls. My assistant confirmed that the San Diego client had moved our meeting thirty minutes earlier, which tightened my already impossible schedule even more. The conference organizer in LA reminded me about the media interviews scheduled for after my presentation. My boss texted me a simple “Don’t mess this up” with a winking emoji that didn’t make it feel any less like a threat.

As I sat there sipping my coffee and watching planes taxi outside the enormous windows, I felt that familiar pre-flight mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. This was my life—constantly moving, always under pressure, perpetually caffeinated. Some days I loved it; other days I wondered what it would be like to have a normal job where I went to the same office every day and knew what to expect.

The boarding announcement snapped me back to reality. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning boarding for Flight 447 to Los Angeles, with service to San Diego.”

I’d specifically chosen an aisle seat in the front section of the plane. After years of flying, I’d learned that every detail mattered when connections were tight. Aisle seat meant quick exit. Front of the plane meant first off. Every minute counted.

As I walked down the jet bridge, I mentally reviewed my timing one more time. Five-hour flight to LA, thirty-minute layover (cutting it close, but doable), one-hour flight to San Diego, straight to the meeting with Peterson & Associates, then back to LAX for an evening flight back to LA, where I’d spend the night before the conference. It was ambitious, but I’d executed tighter schedules before.

Chapter 2: Meeting Mr. Important

Walking onto the plane, I immediately noticed him.

He was already settled in the window seat of my row, and everything about him screamed self-importance. Mid-forties, I guessed, with the kind of perfectly styled hair that probably required more daily maintenance than my entire morning routine. His navy blue button-down shirt was crisp enough to cut glass, paired with charcoal slacks that had clearly never seen the inside of a discount store. The shoes were Italian leather, polished to a mirror shine, and his watch—dear God, his watch—was the kind of Rolex that cost more than most people’s cars.

But it wasn’t just the expensive clothes that marked him as someone who thought the world revolved around him. It was the way he sat, taking up more space than necessary, his elbow claiming the entire armrest. It was how he barely glanced up when I approached, too busy studying his phone with the intensity of someone reading state secrets. It was the slight huff of annoyance when I had to ask him to let me squeeze past to my seat, as if my presence was a personal inconvenience.

“Excuse me,” I said politely, gesturing toward my seat.

He looked up with the expression of someone who’d been deeply interrupted, sighed dramatically, and moved his legs approximately two inches—just enough to technically allow me passage while making it clear he considered this a significant imposition.

“Thanks,” I said, settling into my seat and trying to shake off the immediate bad impression.

As I got comfortable, I couldn’t help but notice more details about my seatmate. His phone case was monogrammed—gold initials that I couldn’t quite make out from my angle. He was scrolling through what looked like stock prices, occasionally making small sounds of satisfaction or displeasure that suggested his portfolio was having a very active day. When the flight attendant came by for the pre-flight drink service, he ordered a double whiskey neat, at 8 AM, and handed over his platinum credit card with the casual air of someone for whom money was no object.

I ordered coffee—my fourth of the day—and tried to focus on my own preparation. I pulled out my laptop and opened my presentation one more time, making small tweaks to the slides and rehearsing transitions. But it was hard to concentrate with Mr. Important next to me, who seemed determined to make phone calls right up until the moment we had to turn devices to airplane mode.

“Look, I don’t care what the market is doing,” he said loudly into his phone, clearly not caring that everyone around him could hear. “I told you to buy at 47, and I meant it. If you can’t execute a simple trade, maybe I need to find someone who can.”

The flight attendant had to ask him twice to end his call, and he responded with visible irritation, as if the basic rules of air travel were somehow beneath him. As he finally hung up, he muttered something about “incompetent staff” just loud enough for the flight attendant to hear.

I felt a flash of secondhand embarrassment and made a mental note to be extra polite to the crew. Having traveled as much as I did, I knew that flight attendants dealt with difficult passengers every day, and a little kindness went a long way.

As we taxied toward the runway, I tried to create a mental barrier between myself and my unpleasant seatmate. I had work to do, and I couldn’t let his attitude affect my preparation. I opened my notes about Peterson & Associates, reviewing everything I knew about their business, their previous marketing failures, and their specific needs.

Peterson & Associates was a mid-sized investment firm that had been struggling with their public image after a series of bad press stories about their business practices. They needed a marketing campaign that would rebuild trust and attract new clients, but they were notoriously picky and had a history of rejecting creative concepts. Their CEO, Margaret Peterson, was known in the industry as someone who asked tough questions and didn’t tolerate anything less than perfection.

The plane began its takeoff roll, and I felt the familiar sensation of being pressed back into my seat as we lifted off. Despite my annoyance with my seatmate, I always felt a small thrill during takeoff. There was something magical about the moment when a massive metal tube defied gravity and carried hundreds of people into the sky.

As we climbed toward cruising altitude, I looked out the window past Mr. Important’s shoulder and watched New York shrink below us. The familiar landmarks—the Statue of Liberty, the bridges, the geometric patterns of streets and buildings—gradually disappeared into a carpet of clouds. In a few hours, I’d be on the other side of the continent, hopefully impressing a new client and setting up what could be the biggest presentation of my career.

Chapter 3: The Flight from Hell Begins

The first three hours of the flight were blissfully uneventful. Mr. Important put on expensive-looking noise-canceling headphones and seemed to fall into a light doze, which gave me the peace I needed to really focus on my work. I refined my presentation slides, practiced my opening remarks, and even managed to answer a few emails during the brief periods when we had wifi.

The flight attendants were exceptional—professional, friendly, and clearly experienced at managing a plane full of business travelers. I made sure to thank them when they came by with drinks, and I noticed that their smiles seemed more genuine when passengers treated them with basic human decency.

It was during the fourth hour of the flight that things began to go downhill.

The meal service started around 1 PM, and the aroma that filled the cabin was surprisingly appetizing for airline food. I realized with a start that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial since dinner the previous evening. The coffee and adrenaline had been keeping me going, but now that the smell of food was in the air, my stomach began to growl audibly.

I’d been so focused on preparation and timing that I’d completely forgotten about basic human needs like eating. This was a common problem for me during high-stress travel days—I’d get so caught up in the logistics and pressure that I’d forget to take care of myself. My assistant was always reminding me to eat regular meals, and I was always promising to do better.

The flight attendants were working their way forward from the back of the plane, and I could see that today’s meal was some kind of chicken dish with rice and vegetables. It looked decent, and more importantly, it would give me the energy I needed for the intense day ahead. The meeting with Peterson & Associates would likely run late, and then I’d have to rush back to LAX for my evening flight. I needed fuel.

Mr. Important had woken up when the meal service started and was now studying his phone again, occasionally glancing toward the approaching food cart with what looked like anticipation. I noticed that he’d finished his double whiskey and had ordered another, which seemed like a lot of alcohol for the middle of the day, but who was I to judge?

As the cart got closer, I felt nature calling. The coffee was catching up with me, and I really needed a restroom break. I glanced down the aisle and saw that the cart was still about four rows behind us, which should give me plenty of time for a quick trip to the bathroom and back.

“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Important, gesturing toward the aisle.

He looked up with that same expression of mild annoyance, as if my basic bodily functions were a personal affront to his comfort. But he moved his legs slightly and allowed me to squeeze past.

The walk to the back of the plane gave me a chance to stretch my legs and clear my head. The flight attendants smiled as I passed, and I could see that they were genuinely enjoying their work, chatting with passengers and making sure everyone was comfortable. It reminded me why I usually enjoyed flying—there was something special about being in a metal tube with a hundred strangers, all of us temporarily united in our shared destination.

But when I reached the restrooms, my heart sank. There was a line of at least six people waiting, and it wasn’t moving quickly. I checked my watch and did a quick calculation. The meal cart had been about four rows away, and they typically took about two minutes per row, which meant I had maybe eight to ten minutes before they reached my seat.

The line moved with glacial slowness. The person currently in the restroom seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time, and the people waiting ahead of me were getting increasingly impatient. I checked my watch again. Five minutes had passed, and we’d only moved forward by one person.

I started to feel genuinely anxious. It wasn’t just about the meal—though I was hungry enough that missing it would be genuinely unpleasant. It was about the entire carefully orchestrated schedule of my day. Missing the meal would mean arriving in San Diego already tired and unfocused, which could affect my performance in the crucial meeting with Peterson & Associates.

Eight minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, it was my turn, and I practically sprinted through my bathroom routine, washing my hands with the speed of a surgeon preparing for emergency surgery. As I hurried back toward my seat, I could see that the meal cart had already passed my row and was continuing toward the front of the plane.

My stomach dropped as I realized what this might mean, but I tried to stay optimistic. Surely the flight attendants would have left my meal at my seat, or Mr. Important would have told them I’d be right back. These were basic courtesies that any reasonable person would extend.

But as I approached my row, I could see that my fold-down tray was empty. And Mr. Important was sitting there with not one, but two meal trays in front of him, methodically working his way through what was obviously his second dinner.

Chapter 4: The Unthinkable Happens

For a moment, I just stood there in the aisle, staring at the scene in front of me. Mr. Important had both meal trays arranged on his tray table like he was dining at a restaurant. He’d eaten most of his original meal and was now about halfway through what was clearly supposed to be mine. He was using the plastic knife and fork with the precise movements of someone who was genuinely enjoying himself, completely oblivious to my presence.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice carefully controlled despite the disbelief I was feeling. “Did they bring my meal while I was gone?”

He looked up from his second helping with an expression of casual satisfaction, as if he’d just remembered I existed. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth—not embarrassed or apologetic, but almost amused by my question.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, taking another bite before continuing. “You were taking a while, so I figured you didn’t want it. Didn’t want it to go to waste, you know?”

I felt my mouth fall open slightly. In all my years of traveling, dealing with delayed flights, lost luggage, rude passengers, and incompetent airline staff, I had never encountered anything quite like this. The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking.

“You… ate my meal?” I asked, hoping against hope that I was somehow misunderstanding the situation.

“Yeah,” he said, completely unfazed by my obvious distress. He gestured vaguely with his plastic fork, as if explaining something obvious to a child. “I was still hungry after mine, and you weren’t here. Besides, it’s not like airplane food is anything special. You can just grab something at the airport when we land.”

The casual dismissiveness in his voice was what really got to me. Not only had he taken my food, but he was acting like I was being unreasonable for being upset about it. As if my hunger, my carefully planned schedule, and my basic right to the meal I’d paid for were all trivial inconveniences that he was generously helping me avoid.

“Are you serious right now?” I asked, more to myself than to him. I was still processing the fact that this was actually happening.

He just shrugged, the gesture of someone who couldn’t be bothered to understand why anyone would make a fuss about such a minor issue. “Relax,” he said, turning back to my meal. “It’s just airplane food.”

Just airplane food. As if the fact that it wasn’t gourmet cuisine somehow justified theft. As if my hunger was less important than his second helping. As if basic human decency was optional when it came to something as mundane as airline meals.

I stood there for another moment, trying to process not just what had happened, but the complete lack of remorse or understanding from the person who had done it. In my professional life, I dealt with difficult clients, unreasonable deadlines, and high-pressure situations on a daily basis. But this was different. This was a complete stranger who had taken something that belonged to me and then acted like I was the problem for being upset about it.

Feeling a mix of anger, disbelief, and growing hunger, I pressed the call button above my seat. Within a minute, one of the flight attendants—a woman in her thirties with kind eyes and a professional smile—appeared at my row.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, though I could see in her expression that she’d probably already guessed what had happened.

“I was wondering if there were any meals left,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and professional. “I was in the restroom when you came by, and…” I gestured toward Mr. Important, who was now studiously ignoring both of us while he continued eating.

The flight attendant’s smile became genuinely sympathetic. She glanced at my seatmate, then back at me, and I could see that she understood the situation perfectly. This probably wasn’t the first time she’d encountered a passenger like him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and I could tell she genuinely meant it. “We’ve actually run out of meals. The catering was a bit short today, and we’ve served everything we have. Would you like some pretzels instead? I can also get you some crackers and cheese from first class.”

Pretzels and crackers. After a day of no food and hours of preparation for the most important meeting of my career, I was being offered pretzels and crackers. Meanwhile, the man next to me was finishing off his second full meal with the satisfaction of someone who’d just solved world hunger.

“That would be great, thank you,” I said, because what else could I do? Getting angry at the flight attendant wouldn’t solve anything, and she was clearly doing her best to help in an impossible situation.

She returned a few minutes later with a small bag of pretzels, some crackers, a tiny container of cheese spread, and an extra bag of peanuts that she’d managed to find somewhere. She also brought me a complimentary drink and whispered, “I’m really sorry about this. Some passengers just don’t think about others.”

I thanked her profusely, knowing that she’d gone above and beyond what was required. The food wouldn’t be nearly enough to sustain me through the long day ahead, but her kindness helped ease some of my frustration.

As I nibbled on the pretzels and tried to focus on my work, Mr. Important finished both meals, neatly stacked the empty trays, and then did something that truly amazed me: he reclined his seat, put his expensive headphones back on, and promptly fell asleep. Within minutes, he was snoring softly, looking as content and satisfied as a cat who’d just caught two mice.

Chapter 5: Simmering Rage at 30,000 Feet

For the next hour, I sat there listening to Mr. Important’s gentle snoring while trying to concentrate on my presentation notes. But it was nearly impossible to focus. Every few minutes, my stomach would growl loudly enough that I worried other passengers could hear it. The tiny bag of pretzels had barely made a dent in my hunger, and the crackers and cheese had been gone in about thirty seconds.

But it wasn’t just the physical discomfort that was bothering me. It was the principle of the thing. In my line of work, I dealt with selfish, demanding clients all the time. But there were usually business reasons for their behavior—they wanted results, they had shareholders to please, they were under pressure to perform. What Mr. Important had done was pure selfishness without any justification beyond his own immediate gratification.

I tried to channel my frustration into productive work. I went over my Peterson & Associates presentation for the dozenth time, refining small details and memorizing key statistics. I reviewed everything I knew about their business, their competition, and their industry. I practiced my opening remarks under my breath, trying to project confidence and expertise despite feeling increasingly hangry and irritated.

The more I thought about the meeting ahead, the more anxious I became about my current state. First impressions mattered enormously in my business, and showing up tired, hungry, and distracted could be disastrous. Margaret Peterson was known for being able to read people instantly, and if she sensed that I wasn’t at my best, the meeting could be over before it began.

I checked my watch compulsively, calculating and recalculating my timing. We were scheduled to land at LAX at 4:15 PM. My connection to San Diego was at 5:00 PM, which was cutting it extremely close even under normal circumstances. Any delay—a late arrival, slow deplaning, long lines at security—could cause me to miss the connection entirely.

The meeting with Peterson & Associates was scheduled for 7:00 PM in downtown San Diego, which gave me just enough time to catch the 5:00 PM flight, land at 6:00 PM, and take an Uber straight to their office. There was absolutely no margin for error, and I was starting to feel the pressure of how many things had to go perfectly for this to work.

Mr. Important continued sleeping peacefully beside me, occasionally shifting position but never fully waking up. At one point, he mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like stock symbols, which somehow didn’t surprise me at all. His expensive watch caught the light from the window, and I found myself wondering what kind of person spends more on a timepiece than most people make in a year, then steals airplane food from a stranger.

I tried to distract myself by people-watching. The business traveler across the aisle was having a heated phone conversation about quarterly projections. A woman two rows up was working on what looked like legal documents, highlighting passages with the intensity of someone whose career depended on every detail. A man near the window was reading a thick novel, completely absorbed in whatever story was unfolding on the pages.

Everyone on the plane seemed to have somewhere important to be, something crucial to accomplish. We were all hurtling through the sky at 500 miles per hour, each carrying our own pressures, deadlines, and responsibilities. It struck me that Mr. Important was probably no different—he likely had his own important meeting, his own tight schedule, his own professional pressures. But that didn’t excuse what he’d done. If anything, it made it worse. Someone who understood the pressures of business travel should have been more considerate, not less.

As we began our descent toward Los Angeles, I felt a familiar mixture of anticipation and dread. The next few hours would determine whether months of preparation paid off or whether I’d have to return to New York empty-handed. Everything I’d worked for—the presentation, the potential client, the career advancement—depended on executing a perfect sequence of connections, meetings, and performances.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing our initial descent and asking flight attendants to prepare for landing. Mr. Important stirred slightly but didn’t wake up. I looked out the window and could see the sprawling expanse of Los Angeles beginning to appear below us, a vast grid of streets and buildings stretching to the horizon.

This was it. In thirty minutes, I’d be running through LAX, desperately trying to make my connection to San Diego. In three hours, I’d be sitting across from Margaret Peterson, trying to convince her that our agency was exactly what her company needed. In twelve hours, I’d either be celebrating the biggest client win of my career or nursing my wounds and wondering what went wrong.

But first, I had to get off this plane and away from Mr. Important, who was still sleeping peacefully beside me, blissfully unaware that his selfishness had set in motion a chain of events that would affect both of our days in ways he couldn’t imagine.

Chapter 6: The Announcement That Changed Everything

As we descended through the clouds toward LAX, I gathered my things and mentally prepared for the sprint ahead. My carry-on bag was packed and ready, my phone was charged, and I had my boarding pass for the San Diego flight already pulled up on my screen. Every minute would count once we landed.

The plane touched down with the gentle bump that always reminded me how remarkable it was that air travel had become so routine. We taxied toward the gate, and I could feel the familiar tension of passengers preparing to deplane. Everyone was checking phones, gathering belongings, and positioning themselves for the rush to the exit.

Mr. Important was still dead to the world, snoring softly with his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open. I glanced at him and felt a momentary flicker of… not quite sympathy, but something approaching it. Whatever important business he had in Los Angeles, he was going to wake up disoriented and rushed, which never made for a good start to a business trip.

But then I remembered the casual way he’d dismissed my hunger and irritation, the complete lack of empathy in his voice when he’d explained that it was “just airplane food,” and any sympathy I might have felt evaporated immediately.

The plane came to a stop at the gate, and the familiar ding of the seatbelt sign being turned off filled the cabin. Passengers immediately began standing up, grabbing overhead bags, and preparing for the usual organized chaos of deplaning. I stood up as well, ready to make my dash to the San Diego gate.

That’s when I heard the announcement that would change everything.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an important announcement for passengers connecting to San Diego,” the flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, clear and professional. “Due to a mechanical issue with the aircraft scheduled for Flight 892 to San Diego, there has been a last-minute gate change. All passengers connecting to San Diego will need to proceed to Terminal 4, Gate 45, as quickly as possible. The flight is currently scheduled to depart in forty-five minutes.”

My heart sank. A gate change meant additional travel time through the airport, and forty-five minutes was barely enough time under the best circumstances. But it also meant that anyone else connecting to San Diego would be making the same desperate sprint through LAX that I was about to make.

I looked down at Mr. Important, still peacefully sleeping despite the noise and commotion around him. The announcement had been specifically about San Diego connections, and given his expensive clothes and general demeanor, there was a good chance he was heading somewhere that mattered for business. Part of me—the part that had been trained since childhood to be polite and considerate—felt like I should wake him up.

I hesitated, my hand halfway to his shoulder. After what he’d done, did I really owe him anything? He’d shown me no consideration whatsoever, taking my meal and then dismissing my legitimate complaint like I was being unreasonable. Why should I extend him a courtesy that he’d never shown me?

But another part of me—the part that had been raised to do the right thing regardless of how others behaved—insisted that leaving him to miss his connection would make me just as selfish as he was. Two wrongs don’t make a right, I could hear my mother’s voice saying in my head.

I reached out and gently nudged his shoulder. “Hey,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him or disturb other passengers. “We’ve landed.”

Nothing. He didn’t even stir. The man was deeply asleep, probably aided by the double whiskeys he’d consumed earlier.

I tried again, this time a bit more firmly. “Excuse me, you might want to wake up. We’ve landed, and if you’re connecting to San Diego, there’s been a gate change.”

This time he mumbled something unintelligible and shifted in his seat, turning his head away from me. But his eyes remained closed, and within seconds he was snoring again.

Around us, the plane was rapidly emptying. Passengers were filing out into the jet bridge, many of them checking their phones and looking concerned about their own tight connections. I could see several people who’d clearly heard the San Diego announcement hurrying toward the exit.

I looked at Mr. Important one more time. I’d tried to wake him—twice. I’d done more than he deserved, considering how he’d treated me. The commotion of people leaving would surely wake him up eventually, and besides, I had my own critical connection to worry about.

I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment and joined the stream of passengers heading off the plane. As I walked past his still-sleeping form, I felt a strange mixture of guilt and satisfaction. I’d done the right thing by trying to wake him, but I couldn’t deny a small sense of poetic justice in leaving him to face whatever consequences his deep sleep might bring.

Chapter 7: The Race Through LAX

LAX was its usual nightmare of crowded corridors, confusing signage, and people rushing in every direction with various levels of panic. I pulled up the airport map on my phone while speed-walking toward the terminal shuttle, calculating the fastest route to Terminal 4.

The shuttle was packed with harried travelers, and I found myself squeezed against a businessman who was having a heated phone conversation about missing his connection to Phoenix. A woman next to him was frantically rebooking her flight to Seattle, and a college student was near tears as she explained to someone on the phone that she might miss her sister’s wedding.

This was the reality of modern air travel—dozens of people all with their own urgent destinations, all at the mercy of mechanical problems, weather delays, and the complex choreography of moving hundreds of aircraft safely through the sky. Everyone had somewhere important to be, and everyone was just one small delay away from having their carefully planned schedules completely disrupted.

The shuttle ride to Terminal 4 felt like it took forever, though it was probably only about eight minutes. I checked my phone compulsively, watching the minutes tick by. I had thirty-five minutes until the San Diego flight was scheduled to depart, and I still had to get through security (again), find Gate 45, and hope that the mechanical issue with the original aircraft had been resolved.

When the shuttle finally arrived at Terminal 4, I joined the stream of passengers rushing toward the security checkpoint. The line was longer than I’d hoped, but it was moving steadily. I used the waiting time to check my email, confirming that the meeting with Peterson & Associates was still scheduled and that they were expecting me at 7:00 PM sharp.

Security went smoothly—one of the few advantages of traveling so frequently was that I’d learned to pack and dress for maximum efficiency through TSA checkpoints. Within fifteen minutes, I was through and following signs toward Gate 45.

The gate area was crowded with passengers who all looked as stressed and rushed as I felt. Many were on their phones, presumably trying to manage the ripple effects of the delayed and rescheduled flight. I could see several people who’d been on my flight from New York, including the businessman who’d been talking about quarterly projections and the woman with the legal documents.

I checked in with the gate agent, who confirmed that the mechanical issue had been resolved and the flight was still scheduled to depart on time. She scanned my boarding pass and told me they’d be boarding in about twenty minutes, which was cutting it incredibly close but still manageable.

I found a seat near the gate and finally allowed myself to breathe for the first time since landing. I’d made it. Despite the gate change, the crowds, and the tight timing, I was going to make my connection to San Diego. In less than two hours, I’d be landing in San Diego with just enough time to get to my meeting.

That’s when I saw him.

Margaret Peterson herself was sitting about ten seats away from me, easily recognizable from the photos I’d studied during my preparation. She was in her fifties, with silver hair pulled back in a elegant bun, wearing a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She was reviewing documents with the intense focus of someone who didn’t waste a single minute of her time.

My stomach clenched with nervousness. If Margaret Peterson was on this flight, it meant she was also dealing with the same delays and gate changes that I was. It also meant that any further delays would affect both of us, and she might not be in the best mood for our meeting if her travel day had been as stressful as mine.

I considered approaching her to introduce myself, but decided against it. She looked deeply absorbed in her work, and interrupting her would probably make a worse impression than simply meeting her as scheduled at her office. Better to let her focus on whatever she was reviewing and hope that our meeting went well despite the chaotic travel day we were both having.

The boarding announcement finally came, and I joined the line of passengers eager to get on the plane and put this travel day behind them. As I walked down the jet bridge, I reflected on how the day had unfolded so far. The meal incident with Mr. Important seemed like hours ago now, though it had only been about ninety minutes since I’d discovered him eating my food.

I wondered briefly what had happened to him. Had he woken up in time to make whatever connection he needed? Had he missed an important meeting because of his extended nap? Part of me felt a small twinge of guilt for not trying harder to wake him, but mostly I felt like whatever had happened was simply the natural consequence of his earlier behavior.

Sometimes, I thought as I settled into my seat for the short flight to San Diego, karma really does work in mysterious ways.

Chapter 8: San Diego Success

The flight to San Diego was blissfully uneventful—just under an hour of smooth flying with no drama, no meal service, and no unpleasant seatmates. I used the time to do final preparations for my meeting, reviewing key talking points and mentally rehearsing my presentation.

Margaret Peterson was seated several rows ahead of me, and I could see her continuing to work throughout the flight. Her focus and professionalism were intimidating, but they also reminded me why this meeting was so important. She didn’t waste time on anything that wasn’t directly relevant to her business objectives, which meant that if she was considering our agency, she genuinely believed we might be able to help her company.

We landed in San Diego right on schedule, and I managed to be among the first passengers off the plane. The airport was much smaller and less chaotic than LAX, and within fifteen minutes I was in an Uber heading toward downtown San Diego and the offices of Peterson & Associates.

The meeting went better than I could have hoped.

Despite my stressful travel day, lack of food, and general exhaustion, I felt sharp and focused as soon as I walked into the Peterson & Associates conference room. Maybe it was the adrenaline from the tight schedule, or maybe it was the motivation that came from overcoming all the obstacles that had been thrown at me, but I felt like I was performing at the top of my game.