They mocked the woman in seat 22C—until two fighter jets aligned with her window, and a pilot spoke her name in a way that made the entire plane forget how to breathe.

Harold saw it and made a low sound in his throat—the kind people make when history refuses to stay buried.

Greg noticed his face change.

“What?” Greg demanded. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Harold finally looked at him fully, and the contempt in that single glance made Greg lean back without realizing it.

“It means,” Harold said hoarsely, “if that tag continue reading …