There was a small tremor as the nose of the plane wavered through the dense storm. Sheets of snow battered the windows along the cabin, and the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Stay steady, folks, we’re experiencing a little air turbulence.” There was a click. “I don’t know what I’m telling them. This plane should have never left the ground in this blizzard.”

The passengers stared at each other in disbelief. Apparently the pilot had not put the microphone totally in its holster. No response came from the co-pilot.

“Ma’am?” I said, gesturing to a stewardess. “I need a hard drink.”

She shook her head. “Not while we’re in turbulence.” She looked just a little less scared than the passengers.

In all of five seconds, the pilot cursed, the plane dipped threateningly, then rocked back and forth as if God was reaching his hand down through the snow clouds and using it for a baby rattle. The lights flickered and went out; oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling.

People screamed. So did Harriet.