She doesn’t speak, only nods.

“Speak.”

I still can’t see those eyes, but the way she presses her lips together, it’s pretty clear she’s pissed. I exhale some frustration so I don’t bark like a drill sergeant.

“Speak so we know your mouthpiece is working.”

“Are you the one flying this?”

If I had any doubt, her tone confirms she’s pissed. Tough shit.

“I am. If you’re going to change your mind, now’s the time to do it.” Be my guest, princess.

“How many years have you been a pilot?”

“I’ve flown choppers on missions. And I’ve flown for years as a civilian. Bought my first helicopter two years ago. I fly at least once a week on average.”

She looks straight ahead with her hands resting on her lap. The pad of one thumb slides back and forth over the edge of one short nail. Her lips aren’t quite as scrunched up, but there are no other tells. I can’t get a read on her.

“If that’s not good enough, you can drive.” It’s not that long of a drive. She’ll be there before nightfall.

The woman nods. Unless she speaks up, I won’t know what she’s thinking. I am not a mind reader. I am on the verge of suggesting she get out and drive herself after she buys a new damn tire when a soft “still in,” comes through the headset. I swallow. Refocus.

All right. Let’s do this.

Slowly, I open the throttle. The helicopter jerks and lifts. The concrete pad below us falls out of view as we rise higher, above the buildings, above the treetops, and up and over the ocean. She leans closer to the glass, peering out over her view of the coastline.

“I’m sorry I was late. I had a flat tire.”

My muscles relax, and a degree of exasperation dissipates. “Did you change the tire yourself?”

“I had a little help from a YouTuber named Stan the Auto Guy.”

Changing a tire isn’t for the helpless or weak. She had enough gumption to figure out how to do it on her own.

We fly for a few minutes in silence. The headphones block all noise, and the resulting void of noise invites meditation.

“Do you agree with Jack’s decision to keep this out of the media?” Her question rings with uncertainty. But it’s a good question.

“If it were my daughter, or someone I loved, I’m not sure it’s the path I would choose. But I’ve never had to deal with being in the limelight. And, while I like Jack Sullivan, he’s a trust-fund kid.”

“What does that mean?” A sharp accent comes out in her question, and it spins like a stiff reprimand.

“Where’s your accent from?”

“Scotland. My mother was American. I have dual citizenship.” Interesting. I detected an accent, but it’s more noticeable on select words.

“What I meant by trust fund is that Jack hasn’t had to deal with things not going his way. He probably assumes she’ll return home unscathed, and to him, the worst-case scenario is if she has to deal with the media casting her as a runaway or a troubled teen. How well do you know Jack?”