six-year-old boy, scared and half-awake, saved our lives because he trusted his own fear enough to speak.
A year after the trial, Evan and I took another trip to the airport.
Not because we had to.
Because he wanted to watch planes again without being afraid of them.
We stood by the windows with hot chocolate and a bag of pretzels, and he pointed at a departing jet climbing through the clouds.
“Mom?” he said.
“Yeah?”
He slid his small hand into mine, warm and steady this time.
“We went the right way that day.”
I looked at the runway, at the bright sky opening over it, and squeezed his hand back.
“Yes,” I said.
“We really did.”
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