Stella’s fingers locked around mine.
I looked toward Dana. She gave nothing away.
The seat belt sign remained off, but the cabin went still.
“Passengers, please reach beneath your seat. You will find a small folded paper tucked into the life vest pocket.”
Paper rustled across the plane.
I reached beneath my seat and found a square of white cardstock.
On the front, someone had drawn an airplane in blue crayon. One wing was larger than the other. Three round windows floated above the body.
Across the top were the words: BOARDING PASS TO SOMEWHERE BETTER.
On the front, someone had drawn an airplane in blue crayon.
The easy smile vanished from his face.
Stella turned toward him.
The captain began telling a story.
Months earlier, on the pediatric oncology floor of a hospital several states away, a little boy named Nolan stopped speaking.
He fought the nurses when they touched his IV.
His mother sat beside him each afternoon, holding a sandwich he never ate.
One day, another patient dragged his infusion pole into Nolan’s room.
One day, another patient dragged his infusion pole into Nolan’s room.
Mike stared at the boarding pass in his hands.
Captain Harris continued.
Mike had brought crayons and folded paper. He sat on the floor and drew two crooked airplanes.
“Pretend we’re already on vacation,” he whispered.
He did not tell Nolan to be brave. He did not say the medicine would stop hurting.
He simply asked where they should go.
He did not tell Nolan to be brave.
Nolan pointed toward the ceiling.
It was the first word he had spoken in three days.
It was the first word he had spoken in three days.
I remembered the thin boy in the room beside Mike’s. I remembered seeing paper scattered around the hallway and asking a nurse why every child suddenly had one.
