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“Why’d I hear my name?” Jonah plows through the door then, interrupting an answer. “What’s she saying about me now?”
“She was just marveling at how you’re such a strapping young lad.” George grins and then winks at me. It seems like Bobbie isn’t the only one on a hunt for a girlfriend for Jonah.
“Funny, she told me I looked like a yeti earlier,” he mutters, lifting a binder off the table, his penetrating gaze scanning it.
Agnes, mid-sip on coffee, snorts and breaks off in a coughing fit. My dad delivers a few whacks against her back to help it clear, himself chuckling.
“Jim’s flying Betty to bring that girl and her baby home?” Jonah frowns. “I don’t know, Wren.”
Dad shrugs. “What do you want me to do? I’ve got a good mechanic with thirty-five years’ experience saying she’s good to go. We’ve gotta trust him, Jonah. Every other plane is in the air today and the poor girl just wants to get home to her husband and family. She’s been stuck in Bangor for over a month.”
Jonah turns to George, whose expression has gone sheepish.
“I forgot Jillian that day. I guess it threw me off.”
“Who’s Jillian?” I whisper to Agnes.
“This is Jillian.” George pulls out a little hula-girl figurine from his pocket, the kind you affix to your car’s dash that sways back and forth with the movement. “My first Wild passenger gave her to me and I’ve had her with me on every flight ever since. Except that one. It was the first time. Like I said, it threw me off.”
“Yeah . . . maybe.” But Jonah doesn’t sound convinced. His frown is severe as he studies for another minute what I assume is the day’s schedule, before tossing the binder back onto the desk. It lands haphazardly on the map. “I’m just gonna take her for a quick spin first. Give it my own gut check.”
“You’ve got people out there, ready and waiting for you,” my dad reminds him with a warning tone. “And a jam-packed schedule ahead of this storm.”
“And I just got a call for an emergency pickup,” Agnes adds. “A villager needs to get to the hospital today. We were just trying to figure that out . . .”
Jonah is already out the door.
“No point arguing with that one,” George mutters.
My dad sighs heavily. “Stubborn ass.”
“She checks out. I ran every test I could think of on her, and she checks out!” Bart the mechanic scratches his chin as he stands with my father and me, watching the bright yellow four-seater plane at the end of the runway. “That son of a gun never believes me.”
The wind whips my long hair across my face, forcing me to scoop it back with a hand. I’m wishing I hadn’t given Jonah his black hoodie back. It’s more practical than the pink cashmere wrap I’m trying to hold in place.
“You know Jonah. Doesn’t take anyone’s word for it, even if he knows how ridiculous this whole thing is,” my dad mutters. “He better hurry up, though. We’re still a day out and we’re already at”—he peers at the orange flag-like cone that flutters ahead—“thirty knots.”
“That’s what those are for? Measuring wind?” I’ve seen them lining runways at airports before. I always assumed they were just markers.
“They’re called windsocks. They determine the wind speed and direction and let us know how risky taking off and landing is going to be. If it reaches forty-five, we won’t be able to fly with any passengers.”
“Huh . . . The more you know.”
“What about you?” Bart leans forward to peer at me through squinty green eyes. He’s a foot shorter than me, making him almost at eye level with my chest, and I’ve caught him taking advantage of that line of sight once or twice. “You gonna learn how to fly one of these while you’re here? Maybe take over the family business one day, when your dad finally kicks the bucket?”
It’s an innocent question, made in jest—Bart has no clue—and yet my stomach spasms all the same. My gaze can’t help but flicker to my dad, whose eyes are locked on Betty. I can’t read anything in that expression, but I don’t miss the way his chest rises with a deep inhale.
“I think I’ll settle for just riding passenger without wanting to puke, thanks.”
“You sure? ’Cause you’ve got the best teacher standing right here,” Bart pushes, oblivious to any tension.
“Actually, the best teacher is out there.” My dad points to Betty as the engine roars with acceleration.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
His gray eyes flutter to me, suddenly serious. “No. I’m not.”
“I’ve met two-year-olds with more patience than him,” I say doubtfully.
