driving.”
I heard a soft metallic click.
When I glanced over, he’d attached the wings to my keyring.
“Dad, those belong to you.”
“They’ve belonged to me for forty-nine years. Now I want you to have them.”
“Why?”
He watched the snow-covered fields passing outside.
“Because someone needs to remember what they mean.”
“The crash?”
“No,” he answered. “Something much more important.”
He touched the wings.
“You never know who’s standing beside you in a line. The old man who’s taking too long. The woman struggling with her luggage. The
