back. “Tomorrow, when you’re flying, remember you’re not in a little prop plane anymore. This is a major carrier. The passengers expect a captain who knows what she’s doing. Or he.” He smiled. “Or at least someone who can land without spilling the Diet Cokes.”
He turned to walk away.
“Hold on,” I said.
He stopped. Turned back. “What?”
“You’re right about one thing.” I reached for my flight bag, the old leather satchel I’d carried for twenty years. The zipper was worn, the edges scuffed, the shoulder strap frayed where it had rubbed against the harness of an ejection seat. “My reaction times might be a little slower now. I’m not thirty anymore.”
He smirked.
“But you’re wrong about the rest.” My fingers found the side pocket, the one I never opened in front of anyone. Inside, folded into a precise square, was a piece of paper on heavy,
