The plane, I notice, is not as well made as the others. Its wheels are a bit crooked, its paint job clumsy, its brush strokes visible in places. “When did you put this one together.” “With my dad, when I was eight years old. It was the first one we ever built.” Of course. It had to be this one that I broke. My unhappiness must show on my face, because he adds hastily, “It’s okay. Honestly, it is.” He stares into space. “I mean, yeah, this plane is special, but . . . it’s complicated. My dad got this for me as a sort of apology.”
