9.
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF OCTOBER, 2017, on her Saturday afternoon flight to San Diego, Lyn sat in the front row. First-class cabins were all the same, the seats leather, not as narrow as in the back; a dedicated and attentive steward to deliver food and beverages, the uniform a bit too tight around his paunch; the engine noise coming from behind the cabin soft, the sound of whispering death. She refused the beverages, her nerves too much on edge. And the food looked worse than being hungry.
The space between the seats protected her arm from being rubbed but provided a wider view area for a seatmate. The man next to her leaned forward, rummaging through his bag on the floor, availing himself of a low angle view up her skirt. She pulled the thin airline blanket over her legs, put on an eye
