When she returned to the rear cabin, Margaret was awake and looking out the window. Thomas had finally fallen asleep, his paperback resting open against his chest, and the sun was moving slowly westward across the wing. Chloe stopped beside 38A and asked the ordinary question she had been forbidden to ask hours earlier.
"Mrs. Davis, is there anything else I can get you?"
Margaret studied her expression. "They are giving you trouble about this row, aren't they?"
Chloe's composure almost broke. She lowered her voice. "Someone wants me to sign something I shouldn't."
"Did you sign it?"
"No."
Margaret nodded slowly. "That's a choice that costs."
"I can pay it," Chloe said, though she was not sure she could. "I can't sign something false."
Margaret rested her hand briefly over the folded napkin inside her book. She wanted to tell the young woman that she would not have to pay that price alone. Yet making a promise before hearing the rest of the story would risk becoming another leader whose confidence exceeded the facts. Instead, she spoke with the seriousness the choice deserved.
"Keep your own account of what happened," Margaret said. "Name the witnesses. Keep the times. And whatever happens, don't let anyone persuade you that accuracy is an act of disloyalty."
Chloe nodded, then turned as the interphone sounded from the galley. Miller's voice carried along the aisle. "Anderson, forward for landing. Now."
The young attendant looked at Margaret once more. "Please keep your seat belt fastened, Mrs. Davis. We'll be down soon."
"I will," Margaret replied. "And Chloe?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Thank you for answering the call."
The aircraft began descending into Seattle beneath a bank of low gray clouds. Snow had fallen in the mountains during the night, and the pale ridges appeared beyond the city as the plane followed its approach over water. Margaret could see the familiar coastline through breaks in the cloud cover, and the sight stirred a feeling she had not experienced in years: a return to the place where a dream had become an institution and where that institution now needed to be questioned.
Thomas woke as the landing gear lowered. He looked startled at the sound, then caught Margaret's eye and remembered their earlier conversation. "Landing gear," he said to himself.
"Exactly."
"You make it sound so ordinary."
"Often it is. The ordinary things are worth understanding."
He smiled, and when the wheels touched the runway, his hands stayed open on the armrests. Margaret watched that small change with more satisfaction than she had felt at any recent board presentation. Something meaningful had happened on the flight that would not appear in the company's revenue report: a frightened man had learned to trust his own ability to understand what he feared. It was a better measure of service than whether Richard Taylor had slept undisturbed.