Lucy was opening access panels to check fluid levels, wiring, and anything else that might be amiss before we took to the air. She was agile and sure of what she was doing, and when she climbed on top of the fuselage to inspect the main rotor, I wondered how many helicopter accidents happened on the ground. It wasn’t until I had climbed up into the copilot’s seat that I noticed the AR-15 assault rifle in a rack behind her head, and at the same time, I realized the controls on my side had not been taken out. Passengers were not entitled to have access to the collective and cyclic, and the antitorque pedals were supposed to be cranked back far enough that the uninitiated did not accidentally push them with their feet.

“What’s this?” I said to Lucy as I buckled my four-point harness.

“We’ve got a long flight.”

She cracked the throttle several times to make certain there was no binding and it was closed.

“I realize that,” I said.

“Cross country’s a good time to try your hand at it.”

She lifted the collective and made big X’s with the cyclic.

“Whose hand at what?” I said as my alarm grew.

“Your hand at flying when all you got to do is hold your altitude and speed and keep her level.”

“No way.”

She pressed the starter and the engine began to whir.

“Yes, way.”

The blades began to turn as the windy roar got louder.

“If you’re going to fly with me,” my niece, the pilot and certificated flight instructor, said above the noise, “then I’d like to know you could help out if there was a problem, okay?”

I said nothing more as she rolled the throttle and raised the rpms. She flipped switches and tested caution lights, then turned on the radio and we put our headsets on. Lucy lifted us off the platform as if gravity had quit. She turned us into the wind and moved forward with gathering speed until the helicopter seemed to soar on its own. We climbed above trees, the sun high in the east. When we were clear of the tower and the city, Lucy began lesson one.