The murmurs of irritation had been replaced by murmurs of alarm. Graham’s hand clamped down on mine, suddenly squeezing hard enough to hurt. I glanced at him. He was still staring at the speaker, face white.

“What?” I asked, keeping my voice as low as I could. Jeff could hear me—he was leaning close to make sure of it—but I was reasonably sure we wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. That was one of my favorite things about air travel, the way flying in a giant white-noise machine provided a sliver of privacy in what was really a very public place.

“That’s not how airplanes work,” Graham murmured.

“How would you know?” asked Jeff. “I thought you were a snake scientist.”

“I am,” said Graham. “That means I know a lot of people with private planes, who use those private planes to fly me to the middle of nowhere to look at rare or difficult to locate snakes. No one is that calm about a problem with the fuel. Not even a commercial air pilot, and part of their pay is based on their ability not to panic passengers. Did you hear his voice? No waver. No fear. Irritation and confusion, but that was not the voice of a man who’s afraid his engine is about to run out of gas. He’s setting down for another reason.”

“Why?” asked Jeff.

“Why do you think?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Because of us. It’s the same damn problem as the trains. We just got here faster.”

“And more publicly,” said Graham. “When they come to take us off the plane, don’t resist—resistance only gets you hurt—but be loud. Demand to know why they’re doing this. Yell about your rights, about the fact that you’re an American citizen. Get people filming the incident. That’s not going to save us right away, maybe not ever, but at least the people who care about us will be aware that we’re gone.”

I didn’t say anything. I sank back in my seat and closed my eyes, feeling the plane tilt around me as it entered its initial descent, and wondering how the hell we’d ended up here.