Seatbelt signs glowed overhead. Flight attendants moved through the aisle with carefully practiced smiles. Outside, clouds flickered white with distant lightning.
Maya walked slowly.
Row twenty-two.
Twenty-one.
Twenty.
Her eyes remained forward.
Then she saw Lucas.
18A.
Headphones around his neck.
Phone in his hand.
He looked bored.
Beside him sat the man in the gray jacket.
Approximately forty-five.
Clean-shaven.
Dark hair.
No visible luggage.
His hands rested loosely on his thighs.
Too loosely.
People who were genuinely relaxed did not work that hard to appear relaxed.
Maya continued walking.
Lucas noticed her.
“Mom?”
The man looked up.
Their eyes met.
For one fraction of a second, recognition passed across his face.
Then vanished.
Maya smiled.
“Just checking on you.”
Lucas rolled his eyes.
“You checked on me ten minutes ago.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re not a pilot anymore.”
The man beside him smiled politely.
“Teenagers keep accurate records of parental embarrassment.”
