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The lady who came to my booth only spoke Spanish. She kept calling me Corey, all panicky and urgent, tugging on my arm. I was getting pretty frustrated, insisting that my name wasn’t Corey and I didn’t know who Corey was and that she had the wrong guy. My knowledge of Spanish was rusty at best. Where were the translators? The whole port seemed empty. It was like everyone abandoned it while I was in the bathroom.

Then the woman spun me around and pointed out the window. And I realized she wasn’t yelling “Corey.” She was yelling “Corre.”

Run.

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