“Do they have keys?”
“I’ll ask,” she said.
“Can airplanes get tired?”
Dana glanced toward me before answering. “Not when they know where they’re going.”
Mike smiled.
Then the captain’s voice came through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Harris. We are cruising at thirty-five thousand feet and expect a smooth flight into Los Angeles.”
Mike looked disappointed.
“He didn’t say ‘roger.’”
The captain continued.
“We also have a special guest with us today. Mike, in seat 12A, I hope you’re enjoying your trip so far.”
My son froze with the straw still between his lips.
Passengers began turning toward us.
Mike lowered the cup.
“He knows my seat.”
Dana stood near the front galley, smiling.
Captain Harris continued.
“Mike, before we land, there is one thing about this trip that you and your parents know nothing about.”
Stella’s fingers tightened around mine.
I looked toward Dana, but her expression revealed nothing.
The seat belt sign was off, yet the entire cabin became still.
“Passengers, please reach beneath your seat. You will find a small folded paper tucked into the life vest pocket.”
People leaned forward.
The sound of rustling paper moved through the plane.
I reached beneath my seat and found a square piece of white cardstock.
Someone had drawn a blue crayon airplane across the front. One wing was larger than the other, and three round windows floated above the body.
Across the top were the words:
BOARDING PASS TO SOMEWHERE BETTER.
There was no name.
No destination.
No explanation.
Mike unfolded his own card.
His easy smile disappeared.
“I’ve made these.”
Stella turned toward him.
“What?”
The captain began telling a story.
Months earlier, on a pediatric oncology floor several states away, a young boy named Nolan had stopped speaking.
He refused to eat.
He fought the nurses whenever they touched his IV.
His mother sat beside him every afternoon, holding a sandwich he never touched.
Then one day, another patient dragged his infusion pole into Nolan’s room.
That patient was Mike.
Mike stared at the boarding pass in his hands.
Captain Harris continued.
Mike had brought crayons and folded paper. He sat on the floor and drew two uneven airplanes.
Then he handed one to Nolan.
“Pretend we’re already on vacation,” he whispered.
He did not tell Nolan to be brave.
He did not promise the medicine would stop hurting.
He simply asked where they should go.
Nolan pointed toward the ceiling.
“The moon,” he had said.
It was the first word he had spoken in three days.
Mike looked at us.
“I remember him.”
I remembered him too.
I remembered the thin boy in the room beside Mike’s. I remembered seeing paper scattered through the hallway and asking a nurse why every child suddenly carried one.
She had smiled.
“Travel documents.”
