Page 28 of Here One Moment

“I expect heart failure, age ninety-five.”

The curly-haired woman lifts up her palm. “High-five! I’ll take that! Ninety-five, woo-hoo!”

People are peculiar.

The lady ignores the offer of a high five and turns to the window seat on the other side of the aisle, where a man sits, hunched, his back curved. He’s wearing a black hoodie and AirPods.

The lady points at him. “I expect road injury, age sixty-four.”

He’s oblivious, doesn’t hear, doesn’t respond, will never know he should make a point of looking both ways when he’s sixty-four.

“I really need you to return to your seat now,” says Allegra. “We’re going to be landing in Sydney soon.”

“I expect smoke inhalation, house fire, age fifty-nine.” The ladypoints at a woman steadily working her way through a bag of chips.

The woman stops, one chip midway to her mouth. “Fire? Where?”

“There is no fire,” says Allegra. “Absolutely not.”

Superhero emerges from the lavatory tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

The lady points up at his big barrel chest. “I expect kidney disease, age ninety-three.”

“Please sit back down now, madam,” says Allegra.

“Once I’ve completed my task,” says the lady.

“I think we’d better do what the flight attendants say,” says the superhero in his deep superhero voice. “They’re in charge.”

He’s like a brick wall. There is no way anyone is getting around him.

“I don’t think I’m done yet!” says the lady. She attempts to peer around the man.

Ellie speaks up. “No, madam, it’s fine, you are done. You’ve, uh, completed your task.”

“I’ve completed my task?” Those words seem to be the magic charm. Apparently even freaky fortune tellers can be task-focused. The lady looks back at Ellie hopefully. “Have I?”

“Absolutely,” says Ellie. “Good job! You probably need a glass of water.”

“Hydration is so important at my age,” says the lady thoughtfully.

“Very important. You sit down and I’ll bring you one straightaway,” says Ellie. Allegra may have underestimated Ellie.

“Thank you,” says the lady. “With ice, please.”

“No problem,” says Ellie.

“I’m exhausted,” the lady confides to Allegra as she leads her back to her seat.

“Me too,” says Allegra.

Allegra feels the curious sideways glances of passengers. The baby is quiet. No one speaks or calls out. The atmosphere is like a classroom after a teacher’s lost their temper.

The lady sits, capably buckles her seat belt, sighs.

Ellie appears with a plastic cup of ice water, which she hands to Allegra.

Allegra can now see Anders at the rear of the plane, apparently fine again, smiling and charming, back doing his job, leaning over to help get someone’s seat into the upright position.

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