Margaret looked at the young woman's face. She had the tired eyes of someone who had slept little, a small burn mark near one wrist, and a name badge polished so carefully that the plastic had begun to show scratches. Fear had made her careful, not indifferent. Margaret recognized the difference because she had once worn a borrowed jacket and counted money by the week.
"I didn't ask whether you were afraid," Margaret said gently. "I asked whether this was a safety decision."
Chloe lowered her voice. "It wasn't mine."
"Thank you for telling me that much."
The passenger in 38B was a man in his early forties, with a dark green sweater and a paperback held open but unread. He moved his elbows inward to give Margaret room and introduced himself as Thomas Bell. He was a public-school music teacher traveling to see his sister, and he had the strained cheerfulness of someone trying not to reveal that flying frightened him. Margaret thanked him for the space and fastened her seat belt while the last of the passengers found their rows.
"Long trip?" Thomas asked.
"Long enough to finish a book," she replied.
He managed a small smile. "I wish reading distracted me. I don't like the wing seats."
"The view can be interesting."
"I'm afraid I'll spend six hours looking for something wrong."
Margaret settled the poetry book in her lap. She could see the end of the wing through the window, bright against a strip of blue winter sky. "Then if you see something that worries you," she told him, "ask me before you decide what it means."
He laughed uncertainly. "Were you a pilot?"
"I worked in aviation once."
It was an answer that concealed more than it revealed, but it was true. Margaret had worked in aviation when passengers paid in cash, when dispatch information arrived by teletype, when men explained aircraft to her while she was holding the maintenance manuals they had come to borrow. She had survived difficult mergers, winter diversions, strikes, engine problems, and decisions that had changed thousands of families' lives. She could sit beside a frightened teacher for six hours without requiring him to know any of that.
At the front, Richard Taylor stretched his legs into the empty space created by moving her. He had already summoned Miller back to the exit row to ask whether the attendant could keep the adjacent seat clear during the flight. Miller assured him that the cabin team would do its best. No one asked what had become of the woman whose confirmed ticket had occupied that seat.
Chloe was standing near the forward galley when Miller called her over. He kept his voice low and his expression ordinary, the appearance of a supervisor discussing a routine service note. What he said, however, made the blood drain from her face.
"Row thirty-eight doesn't need service tonight," he told her. "No water, no blanket, and no response to the call button. Understood?"