"And where is Daddy?"
"Running through the airport," Ruby said with absolute confidence. "He was on a plane from Denver. His flight was late. He's going to sit in two C. He said so."
Walter looked from one twin to the other. He had carried mail for thirty-eight years before retiring, most of those years walking the same neighborhoods through heat, rain, icy sidewalks, and household changes that happened a little at a time. People had told him things because a mail carrier was present and familiar and often seemed harmless enough to trust. He had learned, over those years, that children rarely invented the particular details of a grievance unless an adult had given them the material.
"I know what it looks like when something gets delivered to the wrong address," he said. "And from what you're telling me, those seats have gone to the wrong people."
Ruby almost smiled. It was the first time since leaving first class that an adult had spoken as if the boarding passes mattered. Pearl tilted her head and studied Walter's gentle face. He reminded her a little of Grandpa Bell, whose stories sometimes wandered but always came back to something useful.
"Can you make them give the seats back?" Pearl asked.
"Not by myself," Walter said. "But a person can tell the truth when somebody asks. And somebody ought to be asking."
Jenna passed with a stack of blankets just then. Pearl lifted her hand. "Excuse me, may we see our envelope again? The one Miss Tanya gave the lady?"
Jenna hesitated before pulling it from her apron pocket. She crouched beside the girls and held it open enough for them to read the typed line showing their names and seat numbers. Their destination, Boston, was printed beneath the assigned seats. The special-handling instructions and emergency contacts were still where they belonged.
"It says two A and two B," Pearl said, tapping the paper lightly. "Our seats didn't change on this."
Jenna stared at the numbers. The paper was not new evidence. She had been holding it since Sloan came down the aisle, and it had said the same thing all along. What had changed was the presence of two little girls willing to ask a reasonable question, and an elderly man looking at her as though he expected her to provide a reasonable answer.
"You're right," Jenna said. "I need to check something."
"Daddy's coming," Ruby told her. "He sent me a message before we got on the first plane. He'll be here."
Jenna looked toward the front of the aircraft. "I'm glad he's trying. Let me contact the lead and make sure the captain knows where you are."
She walked back to the galley, but did not immediately place the call. Instead, she reread the instructions, remembering the unaccompanied minor training she had attended only two months earlier. The manual had been unequivocal about maintaining custody records, verifying authorized adults, and keeping the crew informed of a minor's location. No exception had been listed for frequent fliers, expensive tickets, or the embarrassment of admitting a mistake.