he opened them.
“No,” he said softly. “This time, I see a field full of people walking home.”
Michael reached into his pocket.
He removed a tiny pair of plastic wings.
They were faded, chipped, and almost completely worn.
“Ruth gave me these when I boarded Flight 417,” he explained. “I was holding them when you found me trapped under the seat.”
He placed them beside Dad’s silver wings.
“I’ve carried them on every flight I’ve flown for thirty-one years.”
Dad stared at them.
Michael’s voice trembled.
“I wanted you
