Just her father's old watch on her wrist, the glass face scratched from years of wear. She looked exactly the same as the woman who'd boarded flight 2241 6 months ago. That was the point. Flight 2241, Detroit to JFK. Now boarding first class.
She walked down the jetway, stepped through the cabin door. Same white leather seats, same smell of warm towels and espresso, same soft lighting. But something was different. A young man stood at the entrance.
White, early 20s, new uniform. The fabric still stiff, the creases still sharp. His name tag read, "Tyler." He had the nervous energy of someone on his first month on the job. He looked at Briana.
The hoodie, the sneakers, the tote bag, and he smiled. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Ingram. Your champagne is at your seat. Can I take your bag for you?"
Briana paused.
She studied his face, looking for it. That flicker, that micro-expression, that half-second judgment behind the eyes that she'd learned to detect before she could read. It wasn't there. She handed him the tote bag.
"Thank you, Tyler." She walked to 2A, sat down. The leather sighed under her weight, same as before. A crystal champagne flute sat on her armrest, full, golden, bubbles rising slow. She picked it up, took a sip, set it down.
Tyler appeared beside her. "Is there anything else I can get you, ma'am?"
Briana looked at him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"If you didn't know my name, if I wasn't on any list, would you still have brought me that champagne?"