I took my ticket envelope, thanked the agent, and scurried out the front of the terminal and around to Gate 6, where I placed my handbag on the conveyor moving through the X-ray machine. I removed Johnny's key from my jeans pocket and tucked it in my handbag. I walked through the metal detector without incident and reclaimed my handbag on the other side. First-class passengers and parents with small children had already passed through the gate and had left the terminal. I could see them straggling across the tarmac toward the waiting plane. General boarding was now under way, and I took my place at the rear of the slow-moving line. The man in the Stetson was clearly visible.

About six passengers ahead of me, the couple stood together, saying little or nothing. She now carried the magazines, and he toted the duffel. Their behavior with each other seemed strained, their faces devoid of animation. I saw no evidence of affection except for the belly, which suggested at least one round of intimacy six or seven months back. Maybe they'd been forced to get married because of the baby. Whatever the explanation, the emotional dynamic between them seemed dead.

When they reached the gate, the guy handed her the duffel and said something. She murmured her response without looking at him. She seemed withdrawn, decidedly chilly in her reaction to him. He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her cheek a kiss. He stepped back then and tucked his hands in his pockets, looking on while she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent and walked out with the duffel in her hand. Uh-oh, now what? He waited by the gate until she'd moved out of sight. I hesitated, considering my options. I could always follow him, but the duffel was the point, at least until I found out what was in it. Once the booty was gone, how was anyone going to trace it back to the source?

The guy turned in my direction, heading for the exit. He caught my eye briefly before I could avert my gaze. I flicked another look at him and snapped a mental photograph of his grizzled face, the scar on his chin, a deeply indented line of white that began with his lower lip and continued down along his neck. He'd either gone through a window or had his face slashed.

The gate agent took my proffered ticket, handing back the torn stub from my boarding pass. If I was going to bail out, now was the time to do it. Ahead of me, across the poorly lighted expanse of asphalt, I saw the pregnant woman reach the top of the portable staircase and pass through the door of the plane. I took a deep breath and walked out onto the tarmac, where I crossed the open space to the stairs. The air was brisk and the perpetual wind that seems to whip along the runway cut through the fabric of my tweed blazer. I climbed the portable stairs, shoes tinking on the metal treads as I ascended.

I was happier once I'd crossed the threshold of the 737 into the lighted warmth of the interior. I glanced at the three first-class passengers, but the pregnant woman wasn't among them. I checked the seat number on the stub of my boarding pass: 10D, probably over the wing on the left side of the plane. While I waited for the passengers ahead of me to stow carry-on bags and settle in their seats, I managed to skim my gaze across the first few rows of coach. She was sitting eight rows back in a window seat on the right. She'd taken out a compact and was peering into the mirror. She took out a bottle of makeup, opened it, and dotted beige across her cheeks, blending it in.

At eye level, most of the luggage bins above the seats were standing open. I moved forward, waiting for the college student ahead of me to shove a canvas bag the size of an ottoman in the overhead compartment. As I passed row eight, I saw the duffel, half concealed by the pregnant woman's folded raincoat, both items shoved in between a bulging canvas garment bag, a briefcase, and a luggage cart – the very items destined to tumble out and bonk you on the head on landing. If I'd had the nerve, I'd have simply picked up the duffel and toted it with me, shoving it under my seat until I had a moment to search the contents. The pregnant woman glanced in my direction. I turned away from her casually.

I took my seat and tucked my shoulder bag under the seat in front of me. The two seats next to me were empty, and I sent up small airline-type prayers that I'd have the row to myself. In a pinch, I could flip the arms up and stretch out for a nap. The pregnant woman got up just then and stepped out into the aisle, where she reached up into the overhead bin. She pushed the garment bag aside and wrestled a hardback book from an outer pocket of the duffel. The girl stewardperson moved down the aisle behind her, snapping the overhead bins shut with a series of small bangs.

Shortly after the doors closed, the girl steward-person stood up in front of the assembled company and gave detailed instructions, with a practical demonstration, on how to fasten and unfasten our seat belts. I wondered if there was anybody present still befuddled by this. She also explained what to do if we were on the verge of being smashed, crushed, and burned by hurtling at high velocity from our flying altitude of twenty-six thousand feet straight down through the earth's crust. To me, the little hang-down oxygen bag seemed irrelevant, but it apparently made her feel better to pass along tips about the application of this device. To distract us from the possibility of death en route, she promised us a drink cart and a snack once we were airborne.