Read Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense for Free Online Page A

his escape attempt.
    “Somebody stop him!” I shout, pointing to my child who has now planted both his feet on the ground and is heading toward the entrance of the airport, sans adult.
    Why the hell isn’t anyone stopping him? As I push through the crowd (getting evil looks from everyone on the stairs), it occurs to me that my four-year-old looks like a seasoned traveler. Still, doesn’t anyone see that he’s three foot, four inches tall? Sure, people don’t hesitate to yell at you when you swat his bottom in the grocery store after he knocks down an entire shelf of pickles, but to stop him from getting away from me in an airport? Nobody bats an eye.
    I don’t even notice that my carry-on bag is slapping me in the back rather roughly as I go running after my wayward child. The crowd is thick right here, but if I duck my head, I can still make out his bright red shirt. I suck in my breath when see the shirt disappear near the doors that lead into the airport.
    Now, let me make one thing clear. This is not JFK airport or anything like that. This is a rinky-dinky building plopped down to the left of the runway. I think our kitchen is bigger than this building. Still, my heart rises in my throat as Evan disappears from my view.
    Elbowing my way through the crowd, I rush toward the building and practically bump into my own husband.
    “Amy! What are you doing?” he asks as I fly past him. I can’t believe he didn’t even try to stop our child. Not that he would be able to see him of course. To his left, there is a very blond woman...er, girl, walking next to him, her cleavage rather prominently displayed for all the world to see. Also, directly in front of her is another very busty woman with her boobs threatening to free themselves from her tightly-clad attire. Allie, who is next to Roger, is fortunately clutching Colt’s hand, but is so wrapped up in the process of taking a selfie with the plane behind her, that she too, does not notice her other brother zipping past.
    “No roaming! International rates are insane!” I yell to her as I brush past. I am hot on Evan’s heels now. He glances over his shoulder, and upon seeing me approach, he bursts out into a fit of giggles as he squeezes through the crowd and through the door. He thinks that this is a game—a game he enjoys playing any time he can get loose from my grasp. I think the danger portion of his medulla oblongata has not been properly formed or something. The kid has absolutely no fear, and quite frankly, he doesn’t see why we are so obsessed with his safety all the time.
    Panting, I reach the door and attempt to push past the throngs of people five deep, trying to pass through a door the size of the rabbit hole that Alice discovered in Wonderland. “Excuse me, pardon me!” I'm trying not to push people down, but it is proving difficult, as nobody wants to let me pass through.
    A rough-looking meathead in a guinea tee that prominently displays his biceps—which, incidentally, are the size of my  thighs—puts his hand up to stop me. “Hey lady! You need to wait your turn!” His Italian horn dangles from his neck, threatening to poke me in the eye. I instantly recognize him—he’s the guy who nearly ran Lexie over in the parking lot earlier.
    Here I must pause to explain that the mixture of panic and annoyance I am feeling right now is taking over my general common sense. This always happens to me when I panic. It’s like those Snickers commercials where they say, “ Here have a Snickers! You’re not yourself when you’re hungry. ” I'm not myself when I’m hungry, tired, and too far away to grab my four-year-old as he escapes into a crowd of people, in an airport, in a foreign country. So I do what any other irrational person in this situation would do. I slap the meathead. Across the face.
    The man stares at me, stunned, mouth hanging open with shock. His hand slides up to his face in cinematic, slow-motion fashion. My brain realizes my