**Racing Against Time**
Part 1
As I rushed out of my small apartment, I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread wash over me. I was running late, and I knew it. The airport was two hours away, and I had to be there in one and a half hours if I was going to make my flight. I grabbed my bag, which was already packed with all my charts, navigation tools, and other essentials, and headed out the door. I was dressed in my pilot uniform, complete with my shiny epaulets and crisp white shirt. I hated wearing it, hated the way it made me stand out, hated the way people always asked me questions about flying. I was a 22-year-old first officer on a 777, and I was still getting used to the attention. I hailed a taxi on the street and jumped in, giving the driver the address of the airport. As we pulled away from the curb, I let out a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to collect my thoughts. I was exhausted, having only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. The drive to the airport was going to take at least an hour, and I knew I was going to be cutting it close. The taxi driver, a chatty man with a thick accent, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You're a pilot, huh?" he asked, nodding at my uniform. I felt a surge of discomfort and quickly looked away, trying to avoid eye contact. "Yeah," I muttered, not wanting to encourage conversation. But the driver was undeterred. "What kind of plane do you fly?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. I sighed inwardly, knowing I couldn't avoid talking about my profession entirely. "A 777," I replied gruffly, trying to keep my answers short. The driver whistled. "That's a big plane. You must be a real pro." I nodded, not wanting to elaborate further. I stared out the window, watching as the city gave way to suburbs and finally, the open road. As we drove, the driver's chatter continued, but I tuned him out, lost in my own thoughts. I was already running late, and I still had to go through security and get to the gate before boarding started. I just hoped I could make it on time. The taxi hit a pothole, jolting me out of my reverie. I looked up to see that we were approaching a traffic light, and it was turning red. The driver groaned and hit the brakes, and I felt my anxiety spike. Was I going to make it to the airport on time? Only time would tell.