My right knee throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache from a hard landing outside the Vaneck Spire three years ago. I didn’t wince. Pain is just data. It tells you you’re still alive.
“Excuse me,” the man in 12B muttered, his elbow encroaching on the armrest. He was typing furiously on a laptop that probably cost more than my first truck. He wore a $3,000 charcoal suit and a gold watch that screamed “middle management.” He looked at my hands—scarred, rough, and stained with the permanent grease of the motor pool—and then at my worn leather boots.
He didn’t hide his disgust. He actually pulled his laptop closer as if he were afraid I might steal his data just by looking at it.
“You might want to tuck those boots in, pal,” the man sneered. “Some of us are trying to run a business here. We don’t all have the luxury of just staring out the window.”
I didn’t answer. My voice felt rusty, unused. I just turned back to the clouds. I was a ghost returning home to a city that didn’t remember my name.
THE INTERCEPTION
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking,” the intercom crackled. “We’re cruising at thirty-five thousand feet. But if you look out the right side of the aircraft, you’re going to see something very rare.”
The man in 12B scoffed. “Probably a cloud that looks like a puppy. Unbelievable.”
Then the plane banked. It was a subtle, sharp correction—a tactical slip that you wouldn’t feel unless you’d spent five thousand hours in the back of a C-130. My skin began to prickle. The itch at the base of my neck told me we weren’t alone.
