Gregor followed Matti’s backside up into the fuselage, climbing what would be the aisle once they’d broken orbit.

The pair climbed past row after row of somber, horizontal passengers. This crowd had clung to home with fervor; half probably expected they were only leaving temporarily.

Matti reached an empty isle and made the awkward transition from vertical to otherwise, rolling into his window seat. Gregor, feeling a rush of nerves and scotch, lost his footing and crashed into Matti. A loose menu card fell into the seats behind them.

Matti said nothing, but laughed haughtily. Gregor felt his cheeks flush, aggravated by blood redistributing itself into his torso.

The card poked through the gap in the seats. “You seem to have lost your menu,” said a low voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” Gregor whispered through the gap. Matti shook his head.

“You boys drunk?” asked the voice. “Because that’s the only thing that got me on this can, too.”

“Slightly.”

“Soon as they let us float, I reckon to be sick.”