“I had a dream this plane crashed,” she whispers in my ear. Snaps her gum. Cinnamon, by the smell of it. “Skipped right across the water like a stone.”

I half turn in my seat. Brown hair with gray roots. Sticky pink lipgloss. Someone’s neurotic mother, surely. I give her an awkward nod and turn back to the window. It’s raining on the tarmac, and attendants in bright orange blur against the gray sky like flame.

“You’re the only one I’ve told.” She speaks again, louder this time.

I hesitate before glancing her way. It would be rude to ignore her, so I manage a small smile, pressing my knuckles into the armrest.

“The plane won’t crash.”

She flicks a finger between us. French tips. Peeling cuticles, like she’s dehydrated. No wedding ring. I wonder if she’s divorced. “But if it does, you and I will be the only ones prepared. We’ll be the first out the exit.” She makes a diving motion with her hands.

I give that smile again, more of a grimace, and make a show of digging my headphones out of my bag. If she tries to talk to me again, I don’t hear.

When the plane finally takes off, I feel the roaring engines throughout my entire body. The water, streaked against my window, merges together in little rivulets until it becomes a singular stream, veined across the bottom of the pane. Like we are indeed gliding on water.