What would a man like Richard Harrington, who complained about the proximity of other first class passengers, know of a girl from East Baltimore who wore second hand clothes and had never been on a plane before today? The thought was so preposterous that she almost laughed aloud. Clearly, the excitement of the journey was making her imagination work over time. She forced herself to focus on her book, losing herself in the story of another orphaned girl finding her way in an unfamiliar world.
An hour into the flight, as the flight attendants began serving drinks, Zora noticed Harrington standing again. This time he moved with purpose toward the lavatory at the front of the first class cabin. As he passed by the dividing curtain, something fell from his jacket pocket, a small folded piece of paper that fluttered to the floor just on the economy side of the partition.
Without thinking, Zora unbuckled her seatbelt and slipped into the aisle. She picked up the paper intending to return it. Perhaps it was important, a business card, a receipt, a note.
As she straightened, holding the folded square, a strange impulse overcame her. Later, she would question why she did it, what instinct had prompted her to cross a line she knew was wrong. But in that moment, standing alone in the aisle with no one watching, she carefully unfolded the paper.
It wasn’t a business card or a receipt. It was a photograph, worn at the creases as if it had been folded and unfolded countless times. The image showed a young black couple standing before a modest house, their arms around each other, both smiling broadly at the camera.
The woman was petite with close-cropped hair and a dimple in her right cheek. The man was tall and lean, wearing faded jeans and a Howard University t-shirt. Zora’s heart stopped.
She knew that dimple. She saw it in her own reflection every day. And the man, there was no mistaking him, it was her father.
Her hands began to tremble so violently that she nearly dropped the photo. Why would Richard Harrington, a white millionaire businessman, be carrying a picture of her parents? The couple in the photo looked young, probably in their early 20s, suggesting the picture had been taken years before Zora was born, before her father died, before her mother vanished. The lavatory door opened.
Zora quickly refolded the photo and stepped back toward her seat, her mind racing. Harrington emerged, his expression troubled. For a moment, he paused, patting his pockets as if searching for something.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the floor. Zora slid back into her seat, the photo clutched in her trembling hand. She should return it, she knew that.
But how could she explain having looked at it? And more importantly, how could she give it back without asking the question now burning in her mind? How did you know my parents? She watched as Harrington returned to his seat, still patting his pockets with increasing agitation. He signaled to a flight attendant, and soon several crew members were discreetly searching the first class cabin floor. Zora’s heart pounded against her ribs.
She felt like a thief, though what she’d stolen wasn’t the photo itself, but the knowledge of its existence. Knowledge that connected her, somehow, to this cold, wealthy stranger. As the search continued fruitlessly in first class, Zora made a decision.
She would return the photo, but not yet. First, she needed to understand why Harrington had it. Was this connected to the mysterious inheritance she was traveling to London to discuss? Was Harrington himself involved in whatever had prompted that cryptic letter? She carefully placed the photo inside her copy of The Secret Garden, marking the spot where she’d been reading.
Whatever this meant, she needed time to process it to think through her next steps. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, causing the cabin to shudder. The seat belt sign illuminated with a chime.
Around her, passengers reached for their drinks and secured loose items. Zora buckled her seat belt mechanically, her thoughts still consumed by the discovery. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Reynolds speaking, a calm voice announced over the intercom.
We’re experiencing some light turbulence as we pass through a weather system. I’ve turned on the seat belt sign as a precaution. Our flight attendants will temporarily suspend service until we reach smoother air.
We anticipate this should only last about 15 minutes. Thank you for your patience. The turbulence intensified, the plane dipping and rising like a boat on rough waters.
Zora gripped the armrests, her stomach lurching with each drop. She had never experienced anything like this, had no frame of reference for the sensation of being suspended in air at the mercy of invisible currents. For the first time since boarding, she felt a flash of real fear, not about the photo or Harrington, but about the fundamental vulnerability of hurtling through the sky in a metal tube thousands of feet above the Earth.
It’s perfectly normal, said a gentle voice beside her. Zora turned to find an elderly woman had taken the aisle seat in her row, a passenger who must have moved during the drink service when Zora was distracted by the photo. I’ve been flying since the 70s, the woman continued, her southern accent as comforting as a warm blanket.
Back when smoking was allowed and they served real food on China plates, a little bumpy air is nothing to worry about. The woman had silver gray hair styled in a neat bob, and she wore a matching lavender sweater set that reminded Zora of something grandma me might wear to church. Her liver spotted hands were adorned with several rings, including a wedding band that looked too large for her slender finger.
I’m Dorothea, by the way, Dorothea Jackson. She offered Zora a peppermint from a small tin. These help with the ear pressure and settle the stomach too.
Thanks, Zora accepted the candy. I’m Zora, Zora Williams. First flight, Dorothea asked knowingly.
Zora nodded, slightly embarrassed at how obvious her nervousness must be. Well, you picked a beautiful day for it. Once we get above these clouds, the view is going to be spectacular.
Dorothea patted Zora’s hand. Are you traveling to London for pleasure or business? The question made Zora pause. How could she explain her situation to a stranger? It sounded implausible even to her own ears.
It’s complicated, she finally said. Sort of family business, I guess. Ah, Dorothea nodded sagely.
Family business often is complicated. I’m visiting my son and his husband. They moved to London five years ago for his work.
He’s in finance, very successful, and they’ve been after me to visit ever since. Finally decided to take the plunge for my 75th birthday next week. Happy early birthday, Zora said, grateful for the distraction from both the turbulence and her troubled thoughts.
Thank you, sweetheart. You know, you remind me of my granddaughter. She’s a bit older, 17 now, but she has that same look in her eyes, like she’s taking in everything, missing nothing.
Dorothea’s gaze was shrewd despite her grandmotherly appearance. That kind of awareness serves a person well in this world, especially when they have to grow up faster than they should. There was something in the way she said it, not with pity but with recognition, that made Zora feel seen in a way few adults ever saw her.
It was both comforting and unsettling. The plane steadied as they climbed above the weather system. Sunshine streamed through the windows, transforming the cabin from its artificial dimness to a space filled with natural light.
The seatbelt sign dinged off again. What did I tell you, Dorothea gestured to the window, spectacular. Zora looked out to see an endless expanse of fluffy white clouds stretching to the horizon, gilded by sunlight.
It was like a landscape from another world, pristine, peaceful, impossibly beautiful. For a moment she forgot about Harrington, the foe, the mysterious inheritance. She was simply a girl experiencing the magic of flight for the first time, sharing it with a kind stranger who treated her like a person worth knowing.
The moment was shattered by a commotion from first class, raised voices, the sound of movement, a flight attendant rushing forward with purpose. Zora couldn’t see what was happening, but she could feel the shift in energy throughout the cabin as passengers craned their necks and whispered to one another. Excuse me, Dorothea flagged down a passing flight attendant.
Is everything all right up front? Just a passenger feeling unwell, the young man replied with practiced reassurance, nothing to worry about. But his tight expression and the way he hurried back toward first class told a different story. Something serious was happening, and the crew was trying to manage it without alarming the other passengers.
Zora’s thoughts immediately went to Harrington. She didn’t know why there were dozens of other passengers in first class, but somehow she was certain he was at the center of whatever was unfolding. Was it possible? Was this connected to the photo, to her parents, to her presence on this flight? The irrational thought that she had somehow caused this through her discovery of the photo flashed through her mind.
She shook it off. That was magical thinking, the kind grandmommy gently discouraged when Zora was younger and believed she could influence events through ritual or thought alone. I should see if they need help, Dorothea said suddenly, unbuckling her seatbelt.
I was a nurse for 47 years before I retired, err and critical care. Ma’am, please remain seated, the flight attendant who had spoken to them earlier reappeared. We have the situation under control.
Young man, Dorothea fixed him with a look that brooked no argument. I’ve been handling medical emergencies since before you were born. Now is it a cardiac event, seizure, allergic reaction? The flight attendant hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the potential value of professional medical assistance.
Sir, another flight attendant called from the front of the economy section. We need that medical kit now. That settled it.
The first attendant hurried to retrieve the kit while Dorothea, with surprising agility for her age, moved toward first class. Without conscious decision, Zora found herself following. Something pulled her forward, curiosity, concern, or perhaps a deeper instinct connected to the photo still hidden in her book.
Zora, honey, stay in your seat, Dorothea called over her shoulder. But Zora couldn’t. Whatever was happening, she felt compelled to witness it.
As they reached the partition between cabins, the scene in first class became visible. A cluster of people surrounded a single seat, Harrington’s seat. The businessman was slumped forward, his face ashen, his breathing labored.
James Chen, the passenger he’d earlier objected to sitting beside, was supporting him while a flight attendant held an oxygen mask to his face. Possible cardiac event, someone was saying. Does anyone have aspirin? Sir, can you hear me? Another attendant was speaking directly to Harrington, who seemed only semi-conscious.
Mr. Harrington, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Dorothea stepped forward with the authority of decades in medicine. I’m a registered nurse, let me through, please.
The crew made way for her immediately, relief evident on their faces. As she bent to examine Harrington, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment he seemed disoriented, his gaze unfocused.
Then his attention sharpened, moving past Dorothea to where Zora stood at the edge of the gathering. Recognition flashed across his features, followed by something that looked like desperation. His lips moved beneath the oxygen mask, forming words Zora couldn’t hear.
He struggled to sit up, reaching toward her with a trembling hand. Sir, please remain still, Dorothea instructed, gently but firmly pressing him back against the seat. You need to stay calm.
But Harrington’s eyes remained fixed on Zora, intense and pleading. He pulled the oxygen mask aside. The photo, he gasped, his voice barely audible, please.
A flight attendant replaced the mask, but not before Zora heard those words. A confirmation that whatever medical crisis Harrington was experiencing, it was somehow connected to the image she’d found, the image of her parents. What photo, Dorothea asked, checking Harrington’s pulse at his wrist.
He shook his head weakly, still staring at Zora with that strange, desperate expression. Young lady, James Chen addressed Zora directly. Do you know what he’s talking about? All eyes turned to her.
She felt frozen in place, caught between truth and self-preservation. If she admitted to having the photo, she would have to explain how she’d obtained it, by taking something that wasn’t hers, by looking at something private. But if she denied it, she might be withholding something important to a man in medical distress.
Before she could decide, the plane lurched violently. The turbulence they’d experienced earlier returned with greater intensity, sending those standing stumbling into seats and each other. The cabin lights flickered.
Oxygen masks dropped from overhead compartments throughout the plane, dangling like bizarre fruits. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, the intercom crackled. We’ve encountered severe turbulence.
All passengers and crew must return to their seats immediately and fasten their seat belts. I repeat, return to your seats immediately. The urgency in the captain’s voice was unmistakable.
This was not a routine announcement. Whatever they had flown into was serious. The flight attendants began ushering people back to their assigned seats, their movements efficient despite the rocking of the cabin.
Dorothea spoke rapidly to the crew about Harrington’s condition, before reluctantly heading back toward economy. Come on, Zora, she said, taking the girl’s arm. We need to sit down.
But as they turned to go, Harrington lunged forward, grabbing Zora’s wrist with surprising strength for someone in his condition. Wait, he wheezed the oxygen mask askew. Please, important.
Sir, you need to let her go and put your mask back on. A flight attendant insisted, trying to separate them. Harrington’s grip tightened.
His eyes, bloodshot and desperate, bored into Zora’s. James and Eliza, he said, the name sending a shock through her system, her parents’ names. You’re their daughter, I need to.
Whatever he needed, Zora didn’t hear it. The plane dropped suddenly as if the floor had vanished beneath them. For a sickening moment, they were in free fall.
Passengers screamed. Unsecured items flew through the cabin. Then with a bone jarring jolt, they stabilized though the violent shaking continued.
In the chaos, Harrington’s grip had broken. The flight attendants were now frantically securing him in his seat, strapping the oxygen mask properly to his face. Dorothea pulled Zora back toward economy, moving as quickly as possible while maintaining her balance in the turbulent conditions.
Seatbelt, now. Dorothea’s nurse’s voice brooked no argument as they reached their row. Zora complied mechanically, her mind reeling not from the physical turbulence but from Harrington’s words.
He knew her parents. He recognized her as their daughter. And whatever he needed to tell her seemed vitally important to him.
Important enough that even in a medical crisis, even as the plane bucked and shuddered around them, it was his primary concern. The cabin lights failed completely for several seconds before emergency lighting activated, bathing everything in an eerie blue glow. Oxygen masks swayed above every seat.
The plane seemed to be fighting its way through something massive and hostile. Is this normal? Zora asked, her voice small against the cacophony of creaking metal and frightened voices. Dorothea’s hand found hers in the dim light, squeezing reassuringly.
No, honey, it’s not, but these planes are built to withstand much worse. We’re going to be fine. Her calm certainty was a lifeline in the chaos.
Zora clung to it, trying to steady her breathing as the plane continued its violent passage through the storm. Ladies and gentlemen, the captain’s voice returned, noticeably more tense than before. We are diverting to Gander International Airport in Newfoundland due to both the severe weather conditions and a medical emergency on board.
Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened. Our estimated landing time is approximately 40 minutes. Cabin crew, prepare for landing.
Newfoundland, they weren’t even halfway to London. Whatever was happening to Harrington was serious enough, combined with the weather, to force an emergency landing. Zora thought of the photo in her book, of the names he had spoken, of the recognition in his eyes when he saw her.
None of it made sense, yet all of it seemed connected to the mysterious summons that had put her on this flight in the first place. The next 30 minutes were the longest of Zora’s young life. The turbulence gradually subsided as the plane descended to a lower altitude, but the tension in the cabin remained palpable.
Flight attendants moved through the aisles, checking on passengers and offering reassurance where needed. Several times, they hurried to first class with equipment from the medical kit, their expressions growing more concerned with each trip. Beside her, Dorothea maintained a calm exterior, though Zora noticed she was clutching her crucifix necklace and moving her lips in silent prayer.
Outside the windows, the pristine white landscape of clouds had given way to a menacing gray mass that obscured any view of the Earth below. Is Mr. Harrington going to be okay? Zora finally asked, breaking the silence between them. Dorothea looked at her curiously.
You know him. No, Zora admitted, but he knew my parents somehow. The older woman’s eyebrows rose.
Is that what he was trying to tell you? Zora nodded, then hesitated. Should she mention the photo, the mysterious letter that had brought her on this journey, before she could decide, the captain’s voice returned. We are beginning our final descent into Gander.
Flight attendants prepare the cabin. The announcement was followed by instructions about proper landing positions in case of emergency. Though delivered in the same professional tone as all previous communications, the very fact that they were being given heightened the sense that this was not a routine situation.
As the plane broke through the cloud cover, Zora caught her first glimpse of land since leaving Baltimore, a vast expanse of green and brown dotted with lakes that reflected the gray sky above. In the distance, she could make out what must be the airport, a cluster of buildings and runways carved out of the wilderness. The descent was steep and fast, suggesting urgency beyond the standard procedures for an unscheduled landing.
Zora’s ears popped painfully despite the peppermint Dorothea had given her. The cabin remained eerily quiet, passengers too tense for conversation, many clutching armrests or each other’s hands as they approached the runway. The landing itself was rougher than Zora had expected, the plane bouncing once before its wheels firmly gripped the tarmac.
The engines roared as they reversed thrust, the deceleration pressing everyone forward against their seatbelts. Outside, rain lashed the windows, blurring the view of emergency vehicles already positioned along the runway, their lights flashing through the gloom. Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed at Gander International Airport, the captain announced, his relief evident even through the professional veneer.
Local time is 2, 17 PM. Medical personnel are boarding to attend to our passenger requiring assistance. All other passengers, please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until further instructions.
Almost immediately, the forward door opened. Cold air rushed into the cabin as paramedics boarded, directed quickly to first class by the flight attendants. Zora strained to see what was happening, but the partition blocked her view.
