The Writer Takes Off
I swallowed (more like gulped) when I got onto the plane. It was close, tight, and packed. I hated flying with a passion.
The plane’s nothing but a scrap of crafted metal hurtling through the air, and we’re stupid enough to sit in it.
“Our seats should be over there,” Raine said, pointing to the window seats on the right side of the plane.
We hustled towards our seats, and I sat down immediately in the isle seat, drawing down the blind in the window. I can’t stand looking out – it makes me dizzy and nauseous, although nothing ever happens.
Still, I was aware of every single person around me.
Apparently, Raine’s voice didn’t penetrate my thick skull, and he had to practically crawl over to me to sit in his own chair. He blinked at the blind, but ignored it.
I placed Scooter at my feet, and felt him shift around.
“It’ll be okay, Scoots. You’ll see. We’ll be in Dublin before you know it.”
As the engines started up, I couldn’t help but doubt that thought very, very seriously.