The cabin air of flight four-eighty-two from Washington Dulles to Chicago O’Hare tasted of pressurized dry ozone, synthetic carpet fibers, and the faint, sweet trace of roasted almonds circulating through vents sixty feet above our heads.
In seat 24B, my seven-year-old son, Mason, sat on the edge of his blue upholstery cushion, his small sneakers barely dangling over the edge of the seat frame, his little hands trembling with an intoxicating, pure, incandescent joy.
In his lap, clutched against the chest of his miniature denim jacket, was the sheet of thick construction paper he had spent three hours working on at our kitchen table the night before.
Across the top, rendered in crooked, oversized green and red wax crayon strokes, he had written:
BEST PILOT EVER: CAPTAIN TYLER MERCER
Beneath the lettering was a vibrant, sprawling drawing of a twin-engine commercial airliner soaring through yellow sunbeams, with a stick figure wearing a black peaked cap and four gold shoulder stripes waving from the cockpit window.
