from Phoenix. Nothing unusual. A little weather over West Texas, a few bumps, a butter‑smooth landing on 17L despite the crosswind. I’d written up a sticky brake on the number two main gear and was done for the day. Or so I thought.
The door opened and a young captain walked in. Late thirties, tall, with the kind of confidence that comes from being told your whole life you’re the best. I’d seen him around. He flew the Airbus fleet, the newer jets, the ones with the side‑stick and the tray table. He had a habit of talking a little too loud in the crew room, making sure everyone knew his opinions on crew scheduling, union politics, and the “lower quality” of pilots who came up through the regional carriers.
Today he had an audience. A first officer, maybe twenty‑eight, followed him in, along with a flight attendant who was
