Darien had agreed. He had not expected to test that observation quite so literally.
At the gate, the departure board showed Flight 802 on time. He waited until his boarding group was called, thanked the agent who checked his pass, and followed the jet bridge toward the aircraft. The afternoon light through the narrow windows gave the corridor a pale metallic glow, and the low mechanical rumble of equipment outside mingled with conversations behind him.
The Boeing 777-300ER waited beyond the door like an enormous, patient machine. Darien liked airplanes in a way that went beyond convenience. He admired systems that depended on thousands of individual parts working together, and he respected the people who maintained those systems. The cabin's mood lighting glowed violet and warm gold as he stepped through the forward entrance, creating the impression of a place designed to remove every trace of inconvenience from the journey.
A flight purser stood beside the galley holding a manifest and greeting passengers. She had carefully arranged silver-blond hair, a navy uniform, and a name badge reading Brock Wallace. Darien noticed her efficient gestures as she welcomed an older white couple ahead of him, asking whether they had enjoyed their holiday and assuring them that their coats would be properly stored.
When his turn came, he offered his phone and said, "Good afternoon. Seat 1A."
Brock's eyes moved over the boarding pass, then returned to his face. Her expression altered by such a small amount that another passenger might have missed it entirely. Darien did not. He had spent too many years learning the difference between a person looking at him and a person reconsidering what the evidence in front of them meant.
"First aisle to your left, sir," she said. She handed back the phone without the friendly conversation she had given the passengers before him.
"Thank you," Darien replied.
He made no issue of it. There were a dozen possible explanations for a tired employee becoming less expressive, and he did not enjoy spending his life collecting evidence of every small indignity. He wanted to be fair to people even when they failed to extend him the same courtesy. He walked to 1A, slid his briefcase into the designated storage compartment, and settled into the cream-colored seat.
The suite was spacious enough for him to stretch out, with a wide screen, adjustable lighting, a side console, and a sliding privacy door that remained open during boarding. The surfaces were finished in dark wood veneer and brushed metal, and a small bottle of water rested in its holder. Darien checked that his boarding pass still displayed the correct seat, placed his phone beside him, and removed his jacket for the flight.
He sent Camille a final message: On board. Everything looks good. Then he put on his headphones without switching on the music, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. The ordinary noise of boarding faded into a murmur of footsteps, rolling cases, and polite instructions. It was the most peaceful moment he had experienced in several days.