SUNDAY, Jan. 7. Newark International Airport.

I disembark at Gate C85, with my two daughters, from Continental Flight 488 at 5:55 a.m. We’ve just arrived from Puerto Rico, our skin tight with sunburn and salt. I navigate the terminal at the minimal level of consciousness required to find the baggage claim, collect our suitcases, and get into the taxi line.

Tempted to buy coffee from the kiosk between Baggage Carousels 2 and 3, I discover I don’t have my wallet. I must have left it on or around my seat, 23B, where I paused to rifle through my carry-on to be sure I wasn’t leaving any of my younger daughter’s toys or games behind.

Jolted by adrenaline, I instruct my daughters, ages 16 and 6, to remain at the baggage claim while I try to retrieve my wallet. Carrying only my passport, I run upstairs to find someone who can issue me a gate pass allowing my return through security to Concourse C.

Impressing the validity of my request on one distracted airline employee after another takes a discouragingly long time. I am referred to and from and back again to the agent at Desk 72. By the time I pass through the gantlet of uniformed security personnel busy separating travelers from their toothpaste and emollients, I’ve lost 30 minutes, more than long enough for a cleaning crew to straighten, vacuum and de-wallet the airplane. I run, my shoes in one hand, passport in the other, to Gate C85, at the end of the abandoned concourse. Gates 85, 84, 83 — all gates in sight — are bereft of both airline and airport personnel, but my plane’s still there; I can see it through the window.