"And a young fellow named Jonah Bell called my office Wednesday and signed up to drive for us. Said he used to work for you. Said you walked out of your own promotion on Monday morning in front of the whole board."
Celeste looked at the elevator doors. "I didn't walk out of it. I just declined to accept it under false pretenses."
Walt grunted. The elevator came. She stepped in. He put a hand on the door to hold it.
"I've had a lot of people sit in the back of my airplane over the years," he said. "Donors. Executives. A couple of politicians. Some of them come away and write me a big check. I take it, because fuel isn't free. But the check never fixes anything for them. They're the same people afterward." He held the door. "You want to do something for Open Sky, don't write me a check."
"What, then?"
"We need ground crew. People to pick families up at Hanscom and drive them to the hospital and sit with them and fetch them sandwiches. Make the nurse at the desk come out with some news." His pale eyes held hers. "It isn't glamorous. It's mostly waiting rooms. And you don't get to tell anybody about it."
"All right," said Celeste.
"All right," said Walt, and let the door go.
* * *
But first she went to Altoona.
She drove herself. She rented a car at Logan, a gray sedan that smelled of pine air freshener, and drove it west across Massachusetts and down through New York and into Pennsylvania, and past the state line the hills began to fold up around her the way they had when she was a girl, steep and close and dark with trees just beginning to turn. She drove past the exit for Johnstown without slowing. She would go there another time, perhaps. Not today.