And I remember watching the drones at Henry and Savvy's engagement, shaped like champagne bottles, launch with all theunfortunate enthusiasm of a bad erection, each one veering off course before plummeting into the Hudson. She's a walking case study in unforeseen creative complications. But despite the past disasters, and the current ones, her tenacity is undeniable. With every attempt, the drone climbs a little higher, its flight path growing more unpredictable. She's learning, but by sheer force of trial and error. A method that feels risky when dealing with a flying object armed with four spinning blades.
I should be working. I have documents to review and grant applications to finalize. But I can't tear my eyes away. I'm watching a disaster in slow motion, and a part of me, the pragmatic part that can't resist a logistical challenge, is troubleshooting her technique. She's overcorrecting the pitch, her throttle control is inconsistent, and she isn't accounting for the air displacement within the enclosed space of the barn.
"Easy does it," she coaxes the drone, now hovering at about my eye level, ten feet from the loft railing. It drifts, as if sizing up its options. "Just a simple turn. A gentle, elegant turn." She nudges the joystick.
The drone ignores the plan. It shoots forward, locked on target. Straight for my loft. Straight for me. I don't even have time to swear. I shove back in my chair as the drone zips past my head, missing my laptop by maybe three inches before slamming into the wall behind my desk with a crack. It drops to the floor, twitching like a dying insect on the hardwood.
Silence.
I sit frozen for a long moment, my heart trying to beat its way out of my throat. I stare at the drone, now still on the floor.
From below, I hear Maddy’s intake of breath—a strangled, horrified sound that drags me to my feet. I brace my hands on the railing and stare down. She’s frozen, both hands clapped over her mouth, her face pale with horror.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Mason. Are you okay? Did it hit you?”
I take a slow breath, my anger a hot, rising tide. I meet her eyes, letting her see exactly how not-okay I am.
“No,” I say, my voice calm. “It did not hit me. It did, however, attempt to assassinate my computer. This constitutes another, and I would argue more severe, operational failure.”
I catch the flicker of defiance in her eyes, the reply forming—but it falters, swallowed by guilt."I am so, so sorry," she says, her voice shaking. "I thought I had it under control."
"You had it on a direct trajectory for my head," I point out, striding toward the stairs. "We may be rewriting the rules, but here's the first rule. No trying to kill me, on purpose or by accident, before my second cup of coffee."
I descend the stairs with a heavy tread. My initial fury is being replaced by a sense of responsibility. I had watched her struggle for an hour and done nothing. I had let it escalate. This is, in part, my fault. She flinches as I approach, expecting me to unleash the full force of my wrath. I stop in front of her, my attention falling to the complex remote control in her hands.
"There is a logistical flaw in your technique," I say, my voice gentler than either of us expects.
"My technique?" she squeaks. "My technique is 'try not to crash it.'"
"Which is proving ineffective." I hold out my hand. "Give me the manual."
She hands over the thick booklet, all technical specs and black-and-white diagrams. I flip through it the way I do with legal briefs. Fast, focused, picking out patterns and key terms like pitch, yaw, and throttle. It's a system. And I know systems.
"You're treating this like a toy," I say, glancing up. "But it's not. It's a high-performance instrument. You can't mash buttons and hope. It takes precision."
"Precision," she repeats, crossing her arms. "And you're the expert now?"
"I understand how things work." I set the manual on the table. "Your problem is you're reacting. You need to anticipate. Think ahead instead of cleaning up a mess."
I head up to the loft and grab the drone. Aside from a few nicks, it survived. I cradle it instinctively, hands steady from years of flying these things when I needed to clear my head.
"I used to fly them in college," I say as I cross the barn again. "Stress relief."
She blinks. "You think flying a tiny aircraft around sharp beams is relaxing?"
"It is for me," I say. "It's like meditation. Controlled movement. Focus. Silence when it works right."
"That's the least relaxing hobby I've ever heard. What happened to yoga or deep breathing?"
I smile as I kneel and set the drone in place. "This is my deep breathing."
I stand behind her and reach for the controller. She stiffens when I step in close but doesn't move away. My body fits naturally behind hers. The air between us shifts.
"Your stance is off," I say, low enough for her alone. "Relax your shoulders."
I place my hands over hers on the controller. Her fingers twitch beneath mine. The contact short-circuits every part of me that isn't logic or restraint.
"The left stick controls the throttle and yaw," I say. "The right is pitch and roll. They work together. Small, clean adjustments."
