Chapter 10 - The High Sky
The climb out of Dallas Fort Worth was smooth, the heavy wide-body aircraft cutting through the afternoon thermals with effortless power, banking northeast toward the Atlantic corridor.
I sat in Seat 1A, watching the flat, green grid of north Texas dissolve into a mosaic of rivers, forests, and winding highways below.
Marcus sat across the aisle in 1B, his seat reclined, his reading glasses on, engrossed in a surgical case study, his left hand resting casually on the central console between our suites, fingers loosely linked with mine.
The flight attendant appeared with two glasses of chilled champagne and a small plate of warm almonds.
"A toast, Ms. Castillo?" she smiled. "To a successful crossing."
"To a new crossing," I replied, clinking my glass against Marcus's.
The wine was crisp, cold, and tasted of green apples and sunlight.
I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, feeling the deep, rhythmic hum of the twin GE90 engines vibrating through the airframe.
Ten thousand miles below us, in a terminal in Atlanta, a young woman had once stood with a stinging red cheek and an empty boarding pass, believing that her worth was measured by how much cruelty she could endure on behalf of people who didn't care if she survived.
That woman was gone.
She had died on the granite floor of Concourse South, buried beneath the clatter of a gate agent's keyboard and the courage to say two simple, revolutionary words:
Cancel them.
May you like
In her place sat a woman who owned her own ground, flew under her own name, and knew with absolute, unshakeable certainty that the only seat worth having in this life is the one you build for yourself.
I closed my eyes, let the ice melt in my glass, and let the plane carry me out over the vast, glittering blue of the open sea.
