The sourest air of the skies leaks through the gates, pulses through the concourses, drifts into the ticket lounges. It smells like a headache: you can't believe you don't have one. You know you will soon, any second now. But is it only jet exhaust that hangs in the air? Can the bad smell be us, our oils and secretions having seeped over years into the naugahyde seating, the accumulated filth of human traffic permeating this enclosure along with the reeking chemicals used to clean up after us? Kenneled, we stampede from gate to gate, urgent to be released, perhaps contributing faint, rancid fumes of our own.