She hung up before he could say anything else. She stared at the phone for a while. No new messages. Not from San Diego. Not from Dante. She didn’t need one. She turned off the screen, set it face-down on the desk, and went to bed.
The rotorsabove them pulsed in a rhythmic thunder, forcing the air down in thick, hard slaps. Inside the simulator bay, the air was colder, but no one noticed. Every student’s shirt was damp beneath the fire-retardant coveralls. No one complained. It was hover day.
And no one wanted to be the one who lost the bubble.
The instructor’s voice crackled through the internal comms. “Next pair. Johnson and Rhodes. Step up.”
Shannon climbed into the simulator, strapped into the pilot’s side while Rhodes slid into copilot. The mock cockpit was tight, filled with artificial tension and a hum of electricity.
Outside, the other students waited their turn. No one was talking. The screen flickered to life with a digital mockup of a desert landing zone, blue horizon above pale dust. A blinking grid hovered six inches off the ground.
The voice returned, “Task: one-minute stationary hover inside the grid. No drift. No sink. Maintain visual reference points. No resets.”
Shannon exhaled slowly as the exercise started.
She brought the bird up. Felt the simulated torque twist against her controls. Adjusted the pedals. Touched the cyclic just enough. They lifted, but too fast. She compensated,overcompensated, and the machine tilted forward, nose dipping slightly. She tapped it back, a beat too late.
Rhodes didn’t speak, just monitored. The drift started. Subtle. Left yaw. Then forward creep.
Shannon caught it. Too much tail rotor. She eased off again, too late. The simulator jittered. The grid blinked red.
The comm cracked loudly, “Down.”
The whole system froze.
Shannon’s jaw locked as the screen went black. The canopy opened, and she stepped out into the blinding light of the bay.
Chief Marston stood ten feet away, arms crossed, mouth flat. “You know what gets people killed in the air, Johnson?”
Shannon met his eyes. “Yes, Chief.”
“Then why the hell did you just demonstrate every mistake on that list?”
Silence.
“You’ve got the checklist memorized, sure,” Marston snapped. “You can recite it backwards. But your hands aren’t faster than your brain. You’re reacting. Not controlling. You want to fly helicopters? Fine. Then learn to do it without thinking.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“You're flying scared.”
Shannon didn’t blink. “No, Chief.”
He stepped closer. “You think anyone gives a damn what your last name is when you’re flipping upside down at sixty knots?”
“No, Chief.”
He stared at her then nodded once to the next student. “Next pair. Reset the sim.”
Shannon stepped off the platform and walked past the other students without looking at them. Rhodes didn’t say anything as she passed, but her eyes tracked her, not mocking, watching.
That night, Shannon didn’t eat dinner. Didn’t sit with Carter or make excuses. She went straight to her room, locked the door, and knelt by the footlocker beneath her bed. It creaked faintly as she opened it.
She pulled the scarf out slowly. Her mother’s navy silk, embroidered wing near the corner. The scent had faded, but she imagined it anyway. Lavender. She held it in both hands.
Then wrapped it around her wrist twice and tied it off neatly.
She stood and began again. She moved through the start-up checklist out loud. Then hover adjustments. Left pedal. Forward cyclic. Check torque. Scan visual reference. She repeated again and again, until the words were breath, not thought.
