that?”
I looked at Cassandra.
She smiled.
“Yes,” I said. “Turns out you can.”
Halfway through the flight, Luke began drawing.
A red crayon rolled from his tray.
It crossed the aisle.
Stopped against my shoe.
For a moment I simply stared at it.
Cassandra saw.
Her expression softened.
I picked up the crayon.
“Escaped again.”
Luke se rió.
“Give it back.”
I held it for one second longer.
One year earlier, a red crayon had rolled against a stranger’s shoe.
A man who believed a $780 million signature was
