Now, as the jetliner cruised 35,000 feet over the Sonoran Desert, Wanda settled into her new seat. She was late boarding because she had requested to move from her assigned seat, at the back of the plane, to one closer to the front, where she preferred to be. The flight was at 50% capacity, so the attendant moved her up when the plane leveled. Wanda looked at the two vacant seats in her row, then to the seats near her. Most were empty, leaving her to take stock of her life.

It’d been five years since Ed, a city bus driver, clutched his chest in the grocery store, collapsed, and died in the deli section. Some days she swore she still heard him shaving in the bathroom, or making a sandwich in the kitchen. She was a 66-year-old retired librarian, a widow with no children, going home to an empty house, fearing she had an undetected illness.

She swallowed, and felt a tickle in her throat.

What was that? Did they miss something? Maybe I should see a new specialist in L.A.?

She turned to the window and sighed.

Maybe I should just stop acting like a foolish old woman.

Wanda then considered her paperback mystery novel. She decided to take her mind off of her worries, settle in, and resume reading.

That’s when she looked at the lone passenger in the row in front of her—a man, in his 50s, with white hair, and working on his laptop. It had a big screen with a large font, giving Wanda a clear and inviting view over his shoulder. Being interested in what people read, Wanda decided to take a peek.

Just a little one.

Was he reading a book, or working on something business-related? She was curious.

Okay, so I’m nosy.

He had a few files open and was scrolling through them—photos of children.

His children? Grandchildren, nieces, nephews?

Smiling, Wanda thought, whoever they were, it was nice. She often wished she’d had children, but pushed the regret away. Reaching for her book, she thought again.

Wait.

She glanced back at the man’s screen and the little faces flowing by. The children all appeared to be young. Occasionally, he stopped the flow, which allowed Wanda to see how each child’s face was framed exactly the same way. Focusing, she noticed that the bottom right corner of each photo was labeled with a multidigit number.

Like a catalog or gallery of children. Is it a school album?

The man’s keyboard clicked as he typed, with Wanda reading his messages. Several terms and fragments of sentences emerged: adoptee…agreement…transfer of rights to adoptive parents…will obtain a decree…facilitator…fees…will secure authentic-looking records and legal documents…validating legal status as an orphan…

Wanda caught her breath.

Authentic-looking records? What does that mean?

The man’s keyboard continued clicking as he continued what appeared to be a discussion with other parties.