The smell of my aunt's famous fried chicken follows us onto the plane, an aromatic anchor tethering me to the suburbs. As we soar into the air, the seatbelt sign flickers above, and I squirm in seat 17C, the armrest digging into my ribs like a judgment. Our flight delayed by three, I'm now sandwiched between an inquisitive college freshman who wants to quiz me on the 80s, and an elderly woman knitting what resembles an avant-garde sweater.
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