"Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir. Call me Captain. That's what I am."
"Yes, Captain."
Desmond nodded, once, and picked up his roller bag, and walked down the jet bridge.
* * *
Tomás Aguilar was in the right seat with the flight management computer half loaded and the weather printout on his knee, and when Desmond ducked through the cockpit door he twisted around and opened his mouth to say something about being late and then saw his face.
"Jesus, Des. What happened to your cheek?"
"Window," said Desmond. "Long story. I'll tell you at cruise."
He put his roller bag in its spot behind the seat. He hung his hat on the hook. He settled into the left seat and adjusted it forward two notches and reached for the shoulder harness, and his hand was shaking so badly that he could not get the buckle to seat.
He looked at the hand with a kind of detached interest. It had not shaken at the window. It had not shaken when the guard twisted it. It had not shaken at the podium, holding the handset out to that man. It was shaking now, in the one place on earth where he had always been completely, unarguably himself.
Tomás was looking at it too.
"Give me sixty seconds," Desmond said.
"Take five. I've got the box."