One moment flying in green sunlight, then the sky suddenly grey and dark.

Please come back soon. The window is always open.

Don't know how I kept going. You just do. You have to, so you do.

He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she'd done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.

Nothing like an arcane literary debate with your tyrannical master while you pass the time leading to your execution.

Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.

But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.