Robert stood there silent. His cheek burned red. He was 72 years old, a retired postal worker. He'd worn his best Navy blazer today, the one Margaret had bought him for their 40th anniversary five years ago before cancer took her. In his shirt pocket, folded carefully, was a photo of Margaret smiling at their kitchen table.
Robert had saved one hundred thirty dollars every month for half a year. No restaurants, no cable TV. He ate oatmeal for breakfast and sandwiches for dinner. All so he could fly business class once, just once, to see what it felt like. His granddaughter Maya was graduating from Northwestern, top of her class, premed.
Now his shirt was splattered with blood. Jessica Morrison watched him with satisfaction. She smoothed her hair back into place, adjusted her name tag. Eight years she'd worked for Crown Atlantic Airlines. Eight years of dealing with passengers who thought they were special.
Behind her, route manager Derek Sullivan approached. He was forty-one, thick neck, arms crossed. He'd gotten Jessica out of trouble before. Seventeen complaints in the last two years, all mysteriously closed. Everything okay here, Jess? His voice was casual, like this was routine.