“How was the flight?” “Same pilot as last time,” I tell her. Her brow lifts. “Ray? Again?” I nod. “Of sunglasses-on-the-back-of-the-head fame.” “Never seen him without them,” she muses. “He absolutely has to have a second set of eyes in his neck,” I say. “The only explanation,” she agrees. “God, I’m so sorry—ever since Ray got sober, I swear he flies like a dying bumblebee.” I ask, “How did he fly back when he was still drinking?” “Oh, the same.” She hops in behind the steering wheel, and I drop into the passenger seat beside her. “But his intercom banter was a fucking delight.”
