I replace the photograph on the line and climb back into bed. On the nightstand is the leather diary, and tucked inside are a few photographs dear to me. The blurred, sepia snap of my father is one of them. There are a couple of others. But the one I remove from the pages is the photo I took of Velázquez, just before he was reassigned back to his squadron in some RAF forward air base in The Netherlands at the end of October. Unlike Leo, he’s awake. He stares at the camera, naked and exasperated, because he wants to get back to what we were doing before, which you can imagine. His plain, wide face bears some shadow of stubble along the jaw and above his thin upper lip; his chest is dark and furry and shaped like a barrel of wine. One arm stretches toward me, as if to take the camera from my hand. His mouth is open a little, because he’s telling me that he hates having his photograph taken.

Aviatrix by Eugenia Everett (excerpt)

August 1928: Pacific Ocean

They were about nine hundred miles north of Samoa when Irene, who was piloting the Centauri at the time, noticed the fuel level was a lot lower than it should be. A minute or two later, while she was troubleshooting the problem, the right engine stopped. She swore and turned her head.

“Sam! Engine’s out!”

He bolted up from the makeshift cot, a couple of yards away. Sandy, curled up against his ribs, leapt away and scurried underneath to hide between the kit bags. “What?”

“I think something’s wrong with the fuel line! Right engine!”

Of course he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He staggered up and looked over her shoulder at the cockpit dials. Then he staggered over to the window on the right-hand side and peered at the engine, which was illuminated by moonlight. Irene wasn’t sure, but she thought he swore. Then he went to the navigator’s table. A moment later, while Irene struggled with the sagging airplane, a note came through on the clothesline: Baker Island, 102 miles bearing WSW.

She nodded and started to bank for the turn.