“Dipping the fuel.” He points to the bottom of the glass. “Water is heavier. If there was any, it would collect in the bottom.”
“Which is a bad thing,” I guess.
He nods. “I just dipped the lowest part of the tank. If there’s water here, then it could make its way to the carburetor. That could cause the engine to quit.”
I tuck away that information in the mental folder where I keep my airplane knowledge. It sounds familiar from my reading, but I’ve always retained knowledge better when I see it in action. Even better if I can do it myself.
As if hearing my thought, George jerks his chin to my side of the plane. “Want to do the other wing?”
I gape. “I…you’d let me?”
“Yes.”
“But what if I do it wrong?” The end of my question doesn’t need to be spoken for us both to hear the words.
What if I do it wrong, and the plane breaks, and we have to make an emergency landing again but this time not everything works out?
It was one thing to ask George about what he was doing, but me trying my hand means I risk us both. How could he be willing to do that?
“It’s easy. I’ll watch you.” He circles around the nose of the plane,his head taller than the height of the propeller. Then he pops open the door I’d latched shut and offers me a hand out. The plane isn’t far off the ground, but the door is small and the wing is low enough that George has to duck his head down a good foot to fit under it.
I slip my palm into his, belatedly realizing how clammy my skin is. Meanwhile, George’s grip is cool and dry.
And there are those calluses I remember from when he briefly held my face. Rough spots I wouldn’t expect on corporate-worker hands.
Self-conscious about the stress sweat, I pull my hand back quickly and focus on the tool he’s handing me. I take the fuel dipper and push the simple device into what George explains is the fuel drain valve. At first nothing happens.
“Harder,” George directs, voice low and commanding.
Hell, it’s like he’stryingto give me dirty thoughts.
As I do my best not to imagine George and hard things, I use more pressure.
Liquid fills the container. All blue, no bubble of threatening water lingering at the bottom. “Looks clear to me.”
“Agreed.”
“I did it right?” I smile up at George, hopeful.
“Perfectly.” He holds my eyes, then drops them. When I hand him back the fuel dipper, he uses a small foothold on the plane to lever himself up so he can pour the fuel back into the tank.
I definitely don’t stare at the stretch of stomach revealed when his shirt rides up as he reaches.
After that, George walks me through every step he takes to get the plane ready, letting me help with a few other preflight tasks like checking the oil and making sure no birds have built nests in the engine. Apparently, they like the warm, sheltered compartment, but a nest can cause engine fires.
The small tasks he doles out to me soothe my frayed nerves almost as much as his voice does.
Then we sit side by side in the compact cockpit, and he labels each move he makes. Turn the master switch on. Prime the engine by pumping the primer three times. Open the throttle half an inch. Yell “Prop clear” out the window as a final warning for anyone nearby. Then finally he turns the key to start the propeller, and my pulse speeds with the spinning blades.
“Can you hear me?” George asks, his voice feeding to me through the headset I wear.
I open my mouth to respond. To give a simpleyes.
Nothing comes out.
At my silence, George turns toward me, his broad shoulder brushing mine because there really isn’t much space in this plane.
“Beth?” He leans over my lap, his long arm reaching down so he can make sure my headset is properly plugged in. But the tech isn’t what is malfunctioning.
