Marcus Hayes sat motionless in 1A. Every muscle in his body was tight. His father was being humiliated, removed like a criminal. Not yet, he told himself. Let the system show its true face.
Robert reached down for his briefcase. It lay under the seats where Jessica had kicked it. He got on his knees, his joints cracked. Seventy-two years of wear. Jessica stood over him, arms crossed.
Passengers shifted. Some looked away. Others stared. Robert found his briefcase, pulled it out. The leather was scuffed, worn. Inside was everything that mattered: his wife's Bible, his granddaughter's graduation gift, a gold necklace, three hundred dollars in cash.