Page 69 of Brox Boar

I take off my jacket, fold it once and drape it over the divider. The waistcoat feels tight as I roll my shirt sleeves to the forearm. Lana’s in her jeans, a black top and white cardigan hanging open, her sleeves pushed up, too.

I gesture toward the seat on the far side, the one that faces mine. “Sit there.”

She lowers herself carefully, testing the leather, then leans back. After playing with the seatbelt for a few moments, she finally buckles up. I take the opposite seat just as the plane starts to move, subtle at first–a rolling vibration through the floor. Lana’s eyes flick toward the window, then back to me, the corners of her lips pulling upward.

The taxi is smooth. We drift forward as if we’re on rails, turning slowly, the world outside the oval window passing in clean lines: painted markers, service vehicles, the tails of other jets.

Lana’s hands rest on her knees. Fingers interlaced. Knuckles pale.

“You’ve flown before?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“You gonna love it.”

She gives a small laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Feels… strange.”

“It does.” I agree.

She looks down at her sneakers, then back up, meeting my gaze more steadily than she did five minutes ago.

“Are we really going to Chicago?”

“We are.”

“And then back?”

“That’s the plan.”

She swallows. The movement in her throat is small, still obvious.

Outside, the jet turns into position. The engines deepen, no longer a hum. More a presence.

I feel the moment before the thrust, a quiet pause that reminds me of standing at the edge of a fight–right before the first punch, when everything is still possible.

Lana’s shoulders tense.

“Breathe,” I tell her.

She does, slow and careful, like she’s following instructions on how to exist.

The acceleration comes. Lana grips the armrest, her jaw tight, eyes wide as the runway blurs.

The nose lifts, and the ground drops.

Miami peels away beneath us, buildings shrinking into patterns, water spreading out like a sheet of steel. For a moment, there’s nothing but sky and the steady roar of the engines carrying us toward a place that has no right to be connected to my life, yet somehow is.

Lana’s grip loosens once we level out. Her shoulders drop in increments, as if her body only trusts itself to relax in stages.

The seatbelt sign stays on. The pressure shifts again, a soft pop in my ears. The jet climbs higher, and the cabin noise smooths into something constant and almost gentle.

Lana clears her throat. “What are you expecting to find in Chicago?”

My gaze slides to her. “Answers.”

“I meant,” she says, calmly. “What do you expect will happen once you get them?”

I hold her eyes for a beat longer than I should. There’s a carefulness in her tone that doesn’t feel nosy. It feels…. Considered.