"You damn black man. Who the hell let you sit in first class?"
Gretchen Harlo wasn't whispering. She was screaming into a passenger's face.
"Ma'am, this is my ticket. Seat 2A. You can check."
Marshall Fenton didn't flinch.
"I don't care." Her finger shot up an inch from his nose. "People like you belong in the cargo hold. Get out before you contaminate this place."
"This is my seat." Marshall folded the pass. "I'll stay."
Her face went scarlet. She snapped at two security officers. "Walk to the back or I tell the captain you made threats." She smirked.
Marshall stood, straightened his flannel, walked to economy without a word.
What Gretchen didn't know: just 48 hours later, Gretchen Harlo would turn pale, and by then it would be far too late.