An airport is all about suspension: of time, of geography, of air. It strips down routine and identity and subjects people to displacement as they wait, or rush, to get from one place to the next, becoming another passenger in a sea of hundreds, thousands, or—in Atlanta’s case—hundreds of thousands. At one gate, a middle-aged woman stretches like a crane into a lunge on a yoga mat with the sunrise behind her. Across the hall, a mother cries. Her teenage son has an IV in his arm and is in a wheelchair being pushed by a firefighter toward the exit. This is the balance the airport grapples with daily: one side meditative and hopeful, the other dreadful and disorienting.

Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport is the city’s place of transition, where travelers bring their joy and

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