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About midnight, Sheila and Matt came into the waiting room carrying backpacks. Jim sobbed when he saw them, allowing himself to finally let go in the presence of his close friends. No words were needed, just arms to hold him and to even pray with him. The two surrounded him.The three sat together in the crowded room, Matt and Sheila with their arms around Jim. About once an hour, the representative from the airline stood at the front of the room, and gave an update about the accident. Unfortunately, there was little news except a growing list of fatalities.About four a.m. the receptionist Jim had first talked to and to whom he'd given the photo, stood near the edge of the room, scanning past everyone. She finally saw Jim, and gestured for him to come to the desk.He went to her full of questions, but there were many others clustered around. She said to him in a firm voice as she came out from behind the desk, "Sir, the restrooms are this way. Let me show you." She said it in a way that. Cheese, wine, Italian bread, olives. Had she known, she mighthave thought about it and treated herself to something more expensive. On top of that there was the piss. There was no way she could have containedherself. We knew that. The shock and the cold cell, the hours that passed.It took almost six hours before she started screaming, begging to be allowedto go to the toilet. It took another hour until she decided: she got up, andwalked to the far end of the cell, six paces all in all, I counted them oneby one. It'd take four of mine, perhaps five. She squatted in the corner, herback turned to the large mirror wall and let her urine on the floor. It wasa seemingly endless stream of piss and it reached the middle of the cell, despiteher hopes to put some distance between herself and the stinking fluid aftershe got back to her chosen place on the floor. Over the next fifteen hours she did it another two times. I expected herto lose more fluid, but she was apparently still controlling.
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