Page 1 of Walking Wounded

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“Fuck.”

“Sir,” a voice says above him.

Luke jerks and nearly slops cold coffee across the screen of his tablet.

On the other end of the Skype connection, Linda makes a suspicious sound that’s a giggle, ten-to-one.

The flight attendant, her face more rictus than polite smile, says, firmly, “It’s time to shut off all electronic devices. We’re preparing to descend.” Her eyes dart across his flopped-down tray, the detritus of a snack, his scrabbled attempts at in-flight assignment research. “Tray tables in the upright position,” she says, a clear order, and moves on to reprimand someone else.

“I’ll let you get your shit together, then,” Linda says, rolling her eyes on the screen. “God, you’re a mess, Lucas.”

“This is why I don’t miss you when I go out on assignment.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that. Call me when you’re settled in for the night.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, hey, what was all that ‘fucking’ about before?”

He shows her the deep papercut on the pad of his index finger. “An owie.”

“Wuss,” she accuses, grinning.

“Ahem!” the woman in the window seat says, scandalized. “This is not your bedroom, young man!”

Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. She looks – not that Luke would know with any certainty – like the sort of formidable tank of a woman who could be the dowager countess of somewhere snotty and historic.

“You’re in trouble,” Linda says, aiming a pen at him. Well, at the webcam on her laptop, actually. “Ma’am,” she calls, raising her voice, “I’m so sorry. Allow me to apologize for my employee. He can’t help it. He has Tourette’s.” She blows a kiss. “Call me, gorgeous.” The screen goes black.

Luke glances over at his neighbor. “I don’t have Tourrette’s.”

She harrumphs. He has no idea anyone outside of a Victorian romance novel actually harrumphs, but this woman does it for sure. There’s no other word for it.

Okay.

Oh, right, his disorganized mess all over the place.

He shuts down his tablet, gathers his pen, notebook – why does he still have pens and notebooks when his tablet is perfectly capable of handling all the memos he could ever make? Because he’s an old fashioned sort of guy, he thinks, and there’s something about the smell of paper, and ink, and the ugly smudges on the ends of his fingers.

Everything goes into his carry-on, a canvas messenger bag that’s seen better days. At least, it’s supposed to go there. Somehow, he manages to spill a whole sheaf of loose paper onto the floor, pens scattering as he fumbles for it.

“Shit!”

“Excuse me,” the woman says.

“Sorry…ah, damn it.” He smacks his head on his not-upright-positioned tray table. “Just…” Oh, screw this lady. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

“I never…” she starts.

“Yeah, me either, grandma.”

She berates the hell out of him as he finally gets the tray stowed and manages to gather most of his crap and shove it deep into his bag. He stabs his palm on an uncapped pen and swallows another curse. Finally, the messenger bag goes under his seat with a swift kick, and the seatbelt light comes on with a ding.

“…respect for someone else,” the woman finishes up. “This generation is deplorable.”

“Yes, ma’am, I couldn’t agree more.”

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