out his phone and began searching.
After several frantic seconds, he stopped scrolling.
He looked at my father as though he’d seen a ghost.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “You’re him.”
Dad’s expression changed.
For the first time that morning, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
The businessman turned his screen toward me, but Michael caught his wrist.
“Please put that away,” the captain said firmly.
“Why?” I asked.
No one spoke.
I looked directly at Dad.
“What happened on Flight 417?”
His eyes filled.
“I should have told
