We trudged through the doors of the airport, dragging our bags behind us. Twenty-four hours of plane rides left only a three hour taxi ride to complete our journey.
Our eyes scanned the crowds searching for a welcome sign or waving hand. Nothing. I patrolled the crowds looking for our friends. But they were nowhere to be found. A terrifying thought settled in: What if they forgot?
An hour passed. Midnight was fast upon us. And still no sign of anyone from the the children’s home. We turned to plan B – spending a night in one of the city’s overpriced hotels.
“Paul,” an Indian man called out just as we were about to leave for the hotel. “Are you Paul?”
“I’m Kishor.” He extended his hand. “We are late because of the traffic,” he said. “Come, I will take you to your car.”
Four hours and a pit stop later, we pulled into the Children’s Home. Exhausted, we fell into our beds and slept until noon!