I was about to respond when an older woman and a man boarded the plane. Rich shot up to his feet, jaw clenched. “What are you two—” he started. “Putting out a fire, it looks like,” said the man. He turned to me, and I thought I saw something familiar in his face. “I’m Harper King. This is my wife, Edna. And this”—he gestured to the door—“is the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”
