I laugh because it’s true. Infrequent flyers always get twitchy when pilots start tossing around words like turbulence, bumpy, or weather. Across from us, a woman with dark eyes and thin lips tightens her seat belt to the point of obvious discomfort. I imagine painting this scene. I’d focus on her face, blurring out the rest. The mix of fear and energy in her eyes tells the story.

The woman catches me staring and gives a pointed glance at the loose seat belt across my hips. I ignore her and lean closer to the window to see better. Unlike Seat Belt Sally, I’m not worried about a little choppy air. Unless the plane is plummeting to earth on fire, there’s no point in getting worked up.

We can bounce all the way down as far as I’m concerned. I just need to get home to my mom.

Without meaning to, I picture my aunt’s hand in mine, thin and waxy and bruised with old IV sites. This is not the memory I’d choose. Aunt Phoebe and I had great memories. Making homemade fudge. Trying on scarves. Playing together with her paints and color wheels. All these beautiful pieces of my aunt are smudged and watery, but those days from a year ago, the last ones we spent together—they come at me in high definition.

The smell of disinfectant and medicine. The squeak of my shoes on the hospital floor. My mother’s soft, hiccupping sobs. If I let myself think about it too much, it’s like I’m still there.

But it’s worse for Mom. Phoebe was my aunt, but she was my mother’s twin. It’s like losing one of my lungs, she once told me. I don’t think I’ll ever breathe right again.

A clatter brings me back to the present. In the front of the plane cabin, the flight attendants make their way down the aisle, collecting trash and securing seat-back tables. A passenger is arguing with them. I can’t hear what he’s asking, but the flight attendant is firm. No, you can’t access the overheads. Sir, I can’t allow that, it’s unsafe.

I zip my own bag shut as the attendants move on, pleasant and professional even as the cabin bumps and creaks. Beside me, Harper applies lipstick. With the way this plane is jiggling, I don’t know how she’s not shoving it up her nose, but she coats it on with utter precision. It’s like a magic trick.

I shift in my ratty jeans, feeling sloppy beside her crisp white shirt and wool pencil skirt. Harper’s been talking about her college, so she can’t be much older than me, but she’s sophisticated in a way I doubt I’ll ever be.