her squeal before she managed to say the school's name. Then he laughed so loudly that someone outside his office knocked to check whether he was all right. He told her he was proud, not because a famous school had approved of her, but because she had continued making plans for the future during a year when the present had been so difficult.
Evelyn celebrated by baking a cake with too much frosting. She reminded Taylor that Monica had once been accepted to a college she thought she could never afford, then worked two summer jobs and found a way to attend. Taylor listened to the story as though it were new, though she had heard pieces of it before. She wanted to know what her mother had feared, what she had chosen, and how she had handled being the first person in a room who looked like her. Evelyn answered slowly, sometimes laughing and sometimes growing quiet. The conversation lasted longer than the cake.
By the following spring, Flight 1583 no longer appeared constantly in Taylor's thoughts, but airports could still bring the memory rushing back. She disliked the smell of jet fuel near the gates and the particular chime that announced a flight attendant's message. When the family planned another trip to Minneapolis for Evelyn's next birthday, Taylor hesitated. James offered to drive, though the distance would turn a weekend visit into a complicated journey. Taylor considered it seriously. Then she told him she wanted to fly. She didn't want the route to become a place the stranger had taken from her forever.
They booked seats in the same main cabin, this time together. James wore jeans and a gray sweater, without the stars that had turned so many heads the previous year. Taylor carried a newer backpack, though she still kept her worn debate folder in a side pocket. At the gate, a traveler complained impatiently about an overhead-bin restriction. The gate agent listened, explained the safety rule, and offered a practical alternative without asking how much the passenger had spent on tickets. Taylor watched the interaction for a moment, noticing something she might once have overlooked. The agent was firm without being contemptuous, and the traveler eventually thanked her.
When boarding began, Taylor held her ticket in one hand and the blue sweater in the other. James glanced at her. "You okay?" he asked. She thought about giving the automatic answer, the one she had used so often after her mother's death and during the months of the lawsuit. Instead she said, "A little nervous." He nodded. "Me too." She looked surprised. "You?" He smiled. "You think three stars make a person immune to worrying about his daughter?" Taylor laughed, and the sound was ordinary and genuine. They walked down the jet bridge side by side.
The new aircraft smelled of coffee, fabric cleaner, and the faint metallic coolness Taylor remembered. She found their row, put her bag overhead, and sat down before checking that her seat belt was fastened correctly. For several minutes she felt the old tension in her hands. James did not demand