Flight 802 touched down at Los Angeles International Airport shortly after sunset. The landing was smooth, and the passengers felt the familiar gentle jolt as the tires met the runway. For Darien Phillips, the sound of the wheels rolling across the pavement was the first unmistakable signal that the day was finally nearing its end.
The captain's voice came over the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Los Angeles. We apologize for the delay at departure, and we appreciate your patience. Please remain seated until the aircraft is parked and the seat-belt sign is switched off."
Robert Miller sounded subdued. Darien imagined that the man had spent much of the flight reviewing his own decisions, just as Darien had spent part of the journey reviewing the moments when those decisions threatened to turn an ordinary disagreement into a physical confrontation. He hoped the pilot had done more than worry about his next assignment.
The plane taxied past rows of waiting aircraft and service vehicles beneath the orange lights of the airport. Beyond the windows, the city glimmered against the darkening sky. Darien reached for his jacket, smoothed the fabric, and checked the messages waiting on his phone.
Camille had confirmed the car. Sarah had scheduled a short call for when he was safely away from the gate, and Priya had sent a message asking whether he wanted his Saturday meetings canceled. His mother had written only four words: Call me when home.
That message brought a small smile to his face. It was almost comforting to know that, somewhere in a city full of people reading about his net worth and his company's contract, one person cared mainly whether he had eaten and whether he would get enough sleep. He typed back that he had landed and would call later.
When the aircraft reached the gate, the engines quieted and the cabin lights brightened. Thomas came forward to open the first-class suite doors and help passengers prepare to leave. He seemed less nervous than before, though he still looked carefully toward Darien whenever he approached.
"Thank you for flying with us, Mr. Phillips," he said. "I hope the rest of the journey was comfortable."
"You did a good job, Thomas," Darien replied. "I appreciate it."
"Thank you, sir."
The young attendant hesitated, then lowered his voice. "I'm sorry I didn't do more at the beginning. I was in the rear cabin, but I heard about it afterward."
"You can't be responsible for everything that happens on a plane," Darien said. "You can be responsible for how you treat the person in front of you. That's enough to begin with."
Thomas nodded, and his expression changed in a way Darien recognized. It was the look of someone relieved to discover that competence might matter more than fear. He stepped back and gave Darien room to collect his things.
When the seat-belt sign went off, Darien took his briefcase from its compartment and stepped out into the aisle. A few passengers offered small smiles. One whispered that he had handled the situation well, and another gave a discreet thumbs-up. Darien acknowledged them with a nod, uncomfortable with the sense that people had begun treating his simple departure from an aircraft as a ceremonial procession.