At times, even hearing your own name can make no sense.

“James Dwyer.”

The decal on the wall of the plane showed in little pictures how to open the emergency exit. Yank the lever. Fling the door open. Then get out. It was after 2 o’clock last Sunday, five hours since my daughter and I had arrived at La Guardia for a short trip to Columbus, Ohio. A mechanical problem had hung up the flight.

In the next moment, it seemed that we would not be leaving New York even after all that time.

“James Dwyer,” the voice said again.

“That’s me.”

Two men in vests stood in the aisle. Maybe I was getting upgraded?

“You have to get off the plane, sir,” one of them said. “Get your things.”

My daughter, Catherine, a high school senior, was a few rows up. She spotted me in the aisle and immediately got her backpack. Within the hour, tours would be getting under way at a college in Ohio that she was seriously considering, and where we had intended to spend the night.