Andy’s backpack was on the floor in front of him, and it was partially open, revealing the spine of a book. I felt a little guilty reaching into his backpack, but I had six more hours to kill, and if I left my mind to wander, it was going to start playing tricks on me. And when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, the tricks aren’t the pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat kind, they’re more along the lines of “Let’s saw this body in half . . . and then stab it multiple times . . . and then let’s throw it in a dark cellar for a few weeks until it no longer has the will to live.”

So whatever book Andy brought along, Inca this or Inca that, or maybe How to Revitalize Your Acting Career in Your 30s for Dummies, it would keep Gina and a thousand different grim scenarios at bay.

I pulled out the book. It was titled Console Wars: Sega, Nintendo, and the Battle That Defined a Generation. I grinned, thinking back to a Christmas morning nearly thirty years earlier and unwrapping my Nintendo, then playing Contra the next two days until I had calluses on half of my fingers.

Now that was a generation.

The Nintendo generation.

My generation.

I cracked open the book and began reading. Molly came by a few minutes later, taking drink and snack orders (club soda and a turkey sandwich for me). I ate lunch; read for two hours, which is about my max; then, after twiddling my thumbs for ten minutes, I leaned my chair back and closed my eyes.

≈

A slight rocking jolted me from a dreamless sleep. I brought my seat back to its full upright position and stretched my arms above my head. After cracking my back on both sides, I turned and glanced at Andy to my right. His chair was still reclined, and his eyes were closed. But on closer examination, his body was rigid, like he was “planking,” and his face looked like he had just eaten a lemon wedge. He was either having a Valium- (or Xanax or whatever he’d taken) induced nightmare, or he was wide awake.

The plane shook and a high-pitched moan slipped through Andy’s pursed lips.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him. “Just normal turbulence.”

He shook his head from side to side but said nothing.

We hit a pocket of air, and the plane dropped to the point I got that hollow feeling in my belly. The last time I felt that sensation, I had been plummeting to the ground in a hot-air balloon. If anyone was going to let out a soft wail, it should have been me.

But it was Andy.

I turned and glanced back behind me. Dr. Farah Karim was staring at Andy, trying to bury a smile. Team Rustbelt was staring at him as well, both shaking their heads in disgust.