58
“Have there been any plane crashes lately?”
Miranda had clawed her way up out of a dream of planes turning into numeric arrays of failure probability curves before raining down out of the sky and landing like tumbling dice on perfectly geometric fields of glacier and desert. Squares, triangles, heptagons, all mating together seamlessly on an infinitely flat plane worthy of Edwin Abbott Abbott’s seminal work Flatland.
She pulled the phone away from her ear to stare at it groggily. The plane had excellent wi-fi. She supposed that it was a good thing that she’d logged in, so that the call came through. Though at the moment, sleep still tempted.
Andi was an upright silhouette in the dark.
In moments, Holly and Mike hurried up from somewhere.
Where was—
The soft hum of the 787’s two R
