Two rows later, a South Asian man asked if he could have water because he needed to take medication before takeoff.
Rebecca's smile flattened.
"Sir, we're still boarding. Beverage service hasn't started."
"I only need a little water."
She exhaled audibly, disappeared into the galley, and returned with a small cup.
"Here."
As she turned away, she muttered, "Can't even wait five minutes."
The man heard her.
So did Elijah.
The child's eyes followed Rebecca down the aisle.
His mother had once told him something after another child was bullied at school: Pay attention to how people treat someone when they don't think anybody important is watching. That's when you learn who they are.
Elijah did not yet understand how complicated the word important could be.
He only knew the man looked embarrassed.
Up front, Naomi had seen the same exchange reflected in the small mirror mounted near the galley partition. She recorded the time and description without editorializing.
During the first beverage service, the contrast sharpened.
Rebecca entered business class with a brighter voice, a warmer smile, and the effortless charm of someone who knew exactly when charm was useful.
She laughed at a white passenger's joke. Complimented a woman's scarf. Bent slightly to hear an older man's request and answered him as though no request could possibly inconvenience her.
Then she returned to economy and became impatient again.
A Black woman in row twenty asked whether the chicken snack contained dairy because of an allergy.
Rebecca replied, "It's packaged food, ma'am. The ingredients are on the label."
The passenger looked down at the tiny print.
A younger flight attendant named Paige quietly stepped in and read the allergen information for her.
Rebecca rolled her eyes when she thought nobody was watching.
Naomi watched.
She wrote another note.
Service demeanor changes materially by cabin and passenger. Paige compensating. Evaluate supervisory dynamics.
Then she closed the tablet and looked out the window.
Clouds stretched beneath the aircraft like a second landscape.
For a while, nothing happened.
And then Elijah needed the bathroom.
His grandmother had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff. She had been awake since four in the morning, first checking the weather, then repacking Elijah's bag because he had somehow decided that three astronomy books, two notebooks, a sweatshirt, and a plastic model of Saturn were all necessary for a three-day trip.
By the time the aircraft reached cruising altitude, her head had tilted toward the window and her breathing had become slow and even.
Elijah tried to wait.
He shifted in his seat. Read one paragraph twice. Crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Looked at the occupied lavatory sign, then at his sleeping grandmother.
His mother's instructions returned to him.
If you need anything, come find me.
He slipped the space book under his arm and stood carefully so he would not wake her.
The aisle was clear until row twelve.
Rebecca had positioned the beverage cart sideways while restocking it. Bottles, cans, ice drawers, napkin packets, and cups crowded the top. The cart filled nearly the entire aisle.
Elijah stopped a respectful distance away.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
Rebecca did not look up.
He waited.
"Excuse me?"
Ice clattered into a metal drawer. Rebecca moved two bottles. Adjusted a stack of cups. Only when the pause became uncomfortable did she straighten and look at him.
Her eyes moved over him in one quick sweep.
Brown skin. Worn sneakers. Public-school backpack. Child alone in the aisle.
The assessment happened before the question.
"Where do you think you're going?"