A pouch.
She wondered whether it had fallen from the woman’s bag.
The flight attendant spoke again.
“Ma’am, if you could please take 14C, we can complete boarding.”
Her mother closed her eyes.
Only for a moment.
Then she looked down at Maya.
Maya knew that expression.
Her mother was calculating.
Not surrendering.
Calculating.
Three rows.
One-hour flight.
Flight attendants nearby.
Crowded cabin.
No reason Maya would physically be unsafe.
But emotionally?
Maya could see the answer on her mother’s face.
Her mother hated this.
Maya touched her arm.
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“No.”
“I can stay here.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I know.”
That answer seemed to hurt her mother more.
Maya added:
“It’s only an hour.”
Her mother looked at her.
Maya tried to smile.
“I’ll be okay.”
Eventually, her mother nodded.
Not because the situation had become fair.
Because sometimes adults were forced to choose the least bad option available.
She helped Maya into 11B.
Window seat.
Purple backpack beneath the seat.
Seat belt fastened.
Then she kissed her forehead.
“If anything feels wrong, call the flight attendant.”
“I will.”
“If you need me—”
“I know.”
Her mother squeezed her hand.
Maya squeezed back.
Then her mother walked toward Row 14 with Leo against her chest.
The woman in green immediately spread her cream coat over the armrest between the seats.
Maya stared at it.
Then at her.
The woman noticed.
“What?”
Maya shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Maya looked down.
The burgundy pouch was still there.
Half beneath the woman’s shoe.
She wondered why the woman had not noticed it.
Maybe because people who assumed everything around them belonged to them stopped paying attention to what actually did.
The aircraft doors closed.
The boarding noise slowly settled.
Camille walked past checking seat belts.
When she reached Row 11, she avoided looking directly at Maya.
That was strange.
Maya noticed that too.
The plane pushed back.
Her mother was visible only as a partial silhouette three rows behind.
Maya turned once.
Her mother raised one hand.
Maya gave a small wave.
The woman beside her sighed.
“Would you stop twisting around?”
Maya faced forward.
The engines grew louder.
The aircraft began moving.
Maya rested both hands on her knees.
She was not afraid of flying.
She was afraid of being separated in places where adults controlled everything.
Airport.
Hospital.
School office.
Places where rules mattered only until someone louder appeared.
Her grandmother used to say:
“Rules are only useful if people still follow them when following them becomes inconvenient.”
Maya remembered that because her grandmother had said unusual things.
Her grandmother had died three months earlier.
Leo’s soft carrier had been hers.
Her mother still cried sometimes when she thought nobody noticed.
Maya always noticed.
The aircraft accelerated.
Maya looked down automatically.
The velvet pouch shifted.
The woman’s shoe slid slightly backward.
The zipper appeared.
Something white protruded from inside.
Paper.
The aircraft lifted.
Paris fell away beneath the clouds.
Five minutes later, the seat belt sign remained illuminated.
The woman beside Maya opened a magazine.