Sam hobbled out to the car with her. He said he wanted to make sure she left safely, which made her eyes roll. “Sam, this is nothing. Didn’t we land that ship on Howland Island by moonlight, with one engine?”

“It’s not the big things that kill you, Irene. It’s the little things.” He raised his hand and caressed Sandy, who nestled in Irene’s arms, rubbing beneath her ears as she liked. She stretched out her chin and purred graciously. “Sure going to miss this pussy of yours,” he said.

Irene started to laugh in great whoops, so that she had to lean back against the car to keep herself steady. Sam just shook his head and kissed her, and for an instant, the great sky blue above them, the bad thing had never happened, eight years never happened, and they were just Sam and Irene who shared a single joy, a single passion, and that was enough.

“Stay out of trouble, all right?” she said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say, because he was going to Spain, of all places, and she was going to fly solo around the world, and their separate paths were strewn with trouble.

Sam didn’t even bother to answer. He grasped the door handle and opened it for her. Irene stepped inside and sat in the driver’s seat, dumped Sandy carefully into the passenger seat, and Sam leaned in to kiss her again.

“When you’re done with all this, let me know,” he said.

“Let you know? How?”

“I’ll send a postcard or something. You’ll find me.”

Irene pushed down the clutch and turned the ignition. The engine coughed once and woke. Sam stepped back and waved her off down the road. As she swept past, she heard him call something, but she couldn’t make out the words.

George called her from New York the next morning, while she was eating breakfast in her hotel room in Sacramento. The speech had gone well. She was her old self, animated, bursting with passion for this thing called flying, for the grand possibilities of human endeavor. She did something she hadn’t done before, which was to talk about the famous Australia flight: what exactly had gone wrong with the engine, how they had found Howland by moonlight, how she’d learned from Sam Mallory to remain calm at the moment of crisis, the one absolutely necessary characteristic of a great pilot. The audience—a dinner crowd—had stood and applauded for six minutes and then turned to dessert, which was pineapple upside down cake.

“Had a nice time?” George asked.

“The best.”

“Good. I thought maybe you needed a little vacation. A little lighthearted fun, for a change. You weren’t yourself.”

“Well, I’d have to say I feel like myself again.”

“And how’s Mallory feeling? Bones all healed?”