Just a cutesy, pre-coffee flourish to my signature—Halloween, after all—but I instantly realize my mistake: I jinxed my flight. My wife will show my note to reporters, and—hopefully sobbing—say: IT’S LIKE HE KNEW HE WAS GOING TO DIE IN A PLANE CRASH. And no use trying to erase it: out there, in the silence, the universe has already activated and swishes a nebula between distant super-suns like Listerine. So I don’t say goodbye to the Uber Driver. Can’t do anything else to tempt those unseen powers, can’t have him say THERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE WAY HE SAID GOODBYE. I don’t tip good, 3 stars. Being too nice is a taunt. A black hole takes the nebula like a spinning wheel and wraps it tightly into a weapon. I touch the outside of the plane as I board, the door frame, trying to let the plane know I’m its friend. Behind the black hole, gamma rays etch my name into this new weapon. The plane ride is too smooth: just perfect for THERE WERE NO SIGNS OF TROUBLE. Stupid, stupid ghost. I might have killed all these people. The nebula—reformed, assigned, aimed—is released back into the wild via a wormhole somewhere near Saturn. The rings rattle as it speeds past. Jupiter notices, though, and sends out an all-points— The plane begins its descent. We rumble as if the plane is trying to shake off a tickle. I grip the arm rests, my stomach sinks as I wonder: did someone else say SEE YOU LATER to their Uber Driver? We land. Unclench. Before we step off the plane the flight attendant—Venus, her name tag says—pauses me by telling me she likes the band on my shirt. I step off the plane. A stiff breeze just misses me, knocks a guy’s iPad out of his hands. I look up: the Morning Star winks at me from the sky, having elbowed Fate just enough out of my way.