I mean, this is first class. Why a ten-year-old? She’s wearing a blue-jean skirt, a white tank, and enough thin silver bracelets to give me a headache every time she moves. Pulled back in her short brunette hair is a white sweatband. As soon as the girl sits down, she reaches over me to see out the window. Her eyes are as big as Alaska, and she couldn’t appear more terrified if someone bit the end off a grenade and tossed it in her lap. When the plane rolls, then races, down the runway, she goes full-on possessed, swinging her head around and speaking in tongues. After a few minutes, she calms down. But when mild turbulence hits halfway through the flight, the tears start a-comin’. I don’t even notice she’s crying until I lean forward to take my drink from the stewardess. But once I realize the girl’s cheeks are wet and her chest is convulsing, I can’t get it out of my head. Now typically, I’d play dumb.
