Wrapped in a soft blanket with a cup of warm tea in my hands, I sit next to John, and across from Marianne and a trembling Connor Easton, the four of us in utter silence as the craft gently carries us over the ocean. Mari wouldn’t touch the food they offered us, even refusing the tea, which is her absolute favorite. Still … “She’s my friend,” I tell the nurses when they enter our cabin—or should I say airborne prison cell in the sky—a sweet-faced boy and a long-faced girl with a hook nose. “She won’t eat or drink when she’s upset. I know her.” “We need to get fluids into her,” reasons the male. Mari’s bewildered eyes meet mine. She wouldn’t even let them touch her for a proper medical exam. “In time,” I assure them. “When we get home, I’ll …” It suddenly occurs to me that we may not be headed home. We might be heading straight to the courthouse to be judged for my crimes, or worse.
