Cyrus was practically floating an inch off the ground, lost in gratitude and awe and a sense of overwhelming simpatico, when another part of the conversation entered into his head. “My writing will never bring my mother back,” he’d said. And Orkideh replied, “Or any of the people on that flight.” He tried to remember if he’d ever mentioned to Orkideh how his mother had died. He sat on a park bench. He’d told her about Zee, about his father, about his mother dying; but, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember ever saying anything about Flight 655.
