Celeste gave a tired little sigh. "Richard has been looking forward to the flight. We'd both appreciate anything you can do."
Sloan's thoughts moved quickly. She pictured next week's interview, the board member's letter of praise in her personnel file, and the months she had spent quietly telling herself that this promotion would make her remaining working years easier. Then her gaze moved down the cabin to row two, where two small girls were discussing which of them would get to touch the window shade. An empty seat waited just across the aisle, reserved for someone not yet present.
She told herself several stories in the space of a few seconds. Children could sit anywhere and enjoy themselves. Their father was late and might never board. First-class tickets for children were often purchased with family points, not money. Besides, she reasoned, if they were together in the back, they would be easier for the rear crew to supervise than if they were next to a wealthy man who expected quiet.
None of those ideas gave her the right to move them, and not one of them answered the important question: Had she asked whether the children or their parents agreed? The answer was no. But the idea had already become convenient, and convenience could disguise itself as judgment remarkably fast when a person wanted it to.
"Let me see what I can do," she told Richard.
At the gate, a hurried agent received a call from the cabin requesting a seat swap. Sloan said the children were comfortable with the change and their family had approved. The agent, overwhelmed by the equipment substitution and the minutes disappearing before departure, entered the new assignments without verifying the statement against the unaccompanied minor paperwork. That was another mistake, smaller in appearance but important, because it made the electronic seat map reflect a decision no responsible adult had actually made.
Back on the aircraft, Sloan printed the revised passes. She approached row two before either girl had finished drinking her water and announced the change as though it had come from a person with unquestionable authority. She did not tell them they could ask questions or that a supervisor could review the decision. She simply pointed toward the rear of the aircraft and waited for them to move.
And now they were moving, down a narrowing aisle toward seats that neither they nor their parents had chosen. Ruby's eyes burned with unshed tears, but she held them back because Pearl was watching her face for instructions. The little birthday badges on their dresses bumped against their backpacks as they walked. Each step away from row two made the promise of their father's arrival feel a little farther away as well.
The final row was a world away from first class. Seats 26A and 26B were narrow, the backs fixed almost upright by the bulkhead behind them. The lavatory opposite the aisle made a loud sucking noise whenever its door opened, and the air near the rear galley smelled of coffee, disinfectant, and something warm from the ovens. Pearl stopped beside the middle seat and looked at Ruby as though asking whether this was a mistake they were allowed to correct.