Which was why, when Sam cracked open one eye and lifted up one side of his mouth and asked Irene why she hadn’t joined him in the hangar last night, she just turned away to inspect the line of rivets along the wing.

“Figure we spend enough time together already, Sam Mallory,” she said.

At eleven o’clock on the morning of the thirtieth of July, 1928, the doors of Hangar C at Rofrano’s Airfield in Burbank, California, drew open and the Centauri rolled out like “a giant silver torpedo,” as the Orange County Register phrased it. The metal sides flashed in the sun. The photographers swarmed her, bulbs popping. Mr. Rofrano appeared out of nowhere in a pale suit and a Panama hat and spoke to the reporters. Irene watched all this from the window of the cafeteria, where she was sharing a final, anonymous cup of coffee with her father. The air was hot and filled with grease, with the clatter from the kitchen, but Irene didn’t mind. To her it smelled like home.

“That’s your ship, is it?” Mr. Foster whistled. “Mighty fine bird.”

“You see that man in the Panama hat? That’s Mr. Rofrano. He’s the one who designed her.”

“The moneybags?”

“No. Mr. George Morrow, the publisher, he put up the money for the airplane and the flight expenses.”

“Say, where is he? I’d like to shake his hand.”

“You can’t,” said Irene. “He’s on a steamship. On his way to Australia to meet us.”

“You must be setting off soon, then.”

“As soon as we can.”

“That’s swell. You be sure to tell me the big day. See you off in style.” Mr. Foster swirled the last of the coffee in his cup. He fiddled the cigarette between his fingers. The sun was nearly overhead, and the light came like dust through the windows, so he didn’t look as haggard as he had that morning. Irene remembered when he was the handsomest man she had ever known, when he filled any room with magic. Now his hair was gray and thinning and his skin had begun to sag. He talked too loud. He made grand, clumsy gestures as he spoke. At some point, he’d developed this habit of sticking complicated words into conversation, so that strangers would understand he wasn’t just any old drunk, he was a smart drunk. He was so conscious of his own dilapidation, so ashamed of himself, and until this moment Irene hadn’t even realized. She was too busy being ashamed of him herself. She laid her hand on his arm, and he looked at her in surprise. Even as a child, Irene had never just touched a person for no reason.