move too.”
“No.”
She said it with surprising firmness.
“I want you to keep your seat.”
“I’m not letting you sit alone.”
“Yes, you are.”
She squeezed my arm.
“Please, Sam.”
My grandmother almost never asked me for anything.
She would rather clear snow from her sidewalk at seventy-eight than call for help.
If she was asking me for this, there had to be a reason.
“Okay,” I said.
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
First class was every bit as luxurious as advertised.
Wide gray seats.
Actual glassware.
Thick pillows.
A flight attendant offered me orange juice before departure.
I felt miserable.
Seat 3A stayed empty until almost the last passenger boarded.
Then a businessman in a gray suit dropped into it while talking on his phone.
He never looked out the window.
I kept twisting around, trying to see into economy.
A curtain blocked everything.
As we climbed above Boston,
