It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. A young girl, no older than six or seven, stood waiting anxiously next to the bridge opening. Her face and hands were pressed against the large window that overlooked the runway. A tattered stuffed bear lay on the carpet next to her, looking out into the gloominess as well. She and her father had been waiting for nearly two hours hoping the plane carrying her mother would return by midnight. Her father sat in one of the many black chairs being occupied by other relatives to the people on the flight as well. His head hung low between his hands. He was tired; they all were. He checked his watch then looked over to his daughter. She was desperately trying to keep her eyes even the slightest bit open. Eventually she sat down, curling up into a little heap on the terminal floor. Her father rose and walked over, picking her up carefully as not to wake her. He brought her over to the seat he had been in a few moments before and gently lowered her down. The time was 11:42 pm. He was worried. He didn't know where the plane was. He checked his watch again. The time was 11:43.  Rubbing his forehead he paced back and forth within the little rows. Nobody bothered to look up. An announcement suddenly came onto the speakers. It said the radio signals were not picking up. The plane had most likely crashed. The teddy bear fell to the ground. Their mother wouldn't be home for Christmas.