His phone buzzed anyway. "Director Sloan, I'm sorry," said Gail, his operations deputy, sounding as though she had been apologizing before the call connected. "I know you're off today. Quick question on the Denver audit. The team found a discrepancy in a maintenance reporting sample and wants a decision about expanding the review."
Miles glanced at the boarding clock. "Gail, send it to the acting director and copy legal if you need a written interpretation. You know the escalation procedure." He said it gently because she was conscientious, not because the interruption was harmless. "If something is immediately unsafe, ground the affected operation first and sort out the paperwork afterward. Otherwise, I trust you to handle it."
"Understood, sir. I'm sorry again."
"Don't be. Just don't let the office pretend it can't run for one day without me." He heard her laugh, and his shoulders relaxed. "Today I'm just a son."
When he called his mother back, she immediately asked whether he had been reading airplanes again. Miles admitted he had noticed the registration visible near the tail of the aircraft waiting outside, November 2286 Charlie, and that the older jet had probably been through more maintenance cycles than some travelers had been through birthdays. "Older bird," he told her, "but good bones if people keep doing the little things right."
"You hear yourself?" she replied. "It's an airplane. You're supposed to get on it, sit down, and let somebody else worry."
"I'll try."
"No, you won't. But I love you anyway. I'll see you tonight, and I'll save you the corner piece of cake."
Miles closed his eyes for a moment. As a boy he had always wanted the corner because it had the most frosting; his mother remembered details like that even when he forgot them himself. "See you tonight, Mama."
The boarding announcement cut across the terminal immediately afterward. Priority passengers rose in a collective rustle of coats, backpacks, and rolling luggage. Miles waited for a mother to fold her stroller and for an older man with a cane to reach the entrance before he joined the line. He had no reason to hurry. The seat was assigned, the aircraft was waiting, and for the first time in months he was traveling toward someone he loved instead of toward a problem someone else had failed to solve.
At the scanner, the gate agent glanced at his ticket and raised her eyebrows. "Three A. You got lucky today."
"Looks that way."
"Enjoy it, Mr. Sloan." She passed the boarding pass back with a smile that seemed entirely ordinary. It was the last interaction he would have that morning in which his right to sit in that seat was not questioned. On the jet bridge, the smell of conditioned air mingled with hot brakes and the faint metallic scent of the airport ramp. He slipped the railroad badge into his jacket pocket and stepped across the threshold.