The morning smelled of hay, diesel, and cold air.
Aaron climbed into a ten-year-old Ford F-250 with a dent across one corner of the tailgate.
He could have replaced it years earlier.
He liked the truck.
It started every time.
The heater worked.
The driver’s seat had formed itself around him.
There was no reason to replace something because another person might be more impressed by the alternative.
The drive toward Oklahoma City took about forty-five minutes.
Summit Air Aviation appeared behind a landscaped entrance near the airport.
Glass.
Steel.
Corporate flags.
Architectural lines designed to communicate money before anyone stepped inside.
Aaron parked beside a black Porsche.
Nearby sat a Range Rover and silver Mercedes.
His F-250 looked as if it had driven there directly from another planet.
Red dust.
Work gloves on the dashboard.
A cracked bug deflector.
A thermos in the cup holder.
Aaron looked at the building.
Then at his boots.
Denise’s voice appeared in his head.
You’re going like that?
He smiled.
“Yep.”
Inside, the showroom felt almost silent enough to be a museum.
Polished stone floor.
Large windows overlooking the tarmac.
Scale aircraft displayed under recessed lights.
Leather chairs.
Glass tables.
High-end brochures arranged so precisely they appeared untouched.
Soft instrumental music played from ceiling speakers.
Aaron noticed immediately that he was the only Black customer in sight.
He also noticed several people noticing him.
The receptionist looked toward his boots.
A technician carrying a tablet glanced twice.
One salesman behind a glass wall stopped mid-conversation, followed Aaron with his eyes, then leaned toward another man and said something Aaron could not hear.
Aaron approached reception.
“Morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”
The receptionist’s smile looked practiced but not hostile.
“I have a ten o’clock appointment. Aaron Brooks.”
She typed.
Her expression changed slightly when the record opened.
“Yes, Mr. Brooks. G280 consultation.”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Whitfield is your consultant.”
She pressed a phone button.
“Craig? Your ten o’clock is here.”
Aaron could see Craig through the glass partition.
Craig looked toward reception.
Their eyes met.
Craig’s gaze moved downward.
Boots.
Jeans.
Jacket.
Then back to Aaron’s face.
He said something into the phone.
The receptionist lowered the receiver.
“He’ll be with you shortly.”
Aaron nodded.
“Thank you.”
He sat.
Five minutes passed.
Craig remained on the phone.
Ten.
A white couple entered wearing coordinated business-casual clothing.
A salesman reached them almost immediately.
Handshake.
Names exchanged.
Sparkling water offered.
They were escorted into a consultation room.
Aaron watched without judgment at first.
Maybe they had a different arrangement.
A navy-suited man arrived several minutes later.
Another salesman approached before he reached the desk.
Within two minutes he was seated with coffee.
Aaron looked at the wall clock.
10:14.
The receptionist called Craig again.
Aaron watched Craig through the partition.
He glanced at the phone.
Then waved her off.
She looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks.”
“No problem.”
But there was a problem.
Aaron understood that now.
At 10:17, Craig finally emerged.