The sun was just coming up, chasing the airliner as it flew to the west and casting long shadows across the dark, open ocean as it climbed its way upward on the horizon. The North Atlantic air was cold and crystal clear, and Ammon estimated the visibility to be at least seventy miles. He could make out the tiny lakes, rocky shores, and green rolling hills of northern Maine as the Boeing 767 entered United States’ airspace. He stared out on the horizon, looking south toward Boston and the Massachusetts Bay. From thirty-eight thousand feet, he could just make out the slight curvature in the earth. Turning away from the window, he sighed and leaned back in his scat, then glanced over at Morozov, who sat two seats over, sleeping. A steward passed by and asked him once again if he needed a pillow. Shaking his head, he abruptly sent him away. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t even close his eyes without an image of Jesse’s tortured face filling his head.
