She fumbled in her cardigan pocket and brought out a boarding pass, folded twice. He did not need to unfold it all the way. He could see the flight number through the paper.
2216.
"Well," he said. "That's a coincidence. That's my flight."
"You're going to Seattle?"
"I'm flying the airplane to Seattle, ma'am. I'm the captain."
She looked at the pullover, the jeans, his sneakers, which were black and white and not new. He watched her decide to believe him. It took less time than it would have taken most people, and he was grateful for that, and he was also aware of being grateful, which was its own small weight.
"You don't look like a captain," she said. It was not an accusation. It was the way someone might say you don't look like a Tuesday.
"My uniform's in the shop. Well. It's in this bag. It was in the shop." He smiled. "Long story. What's your name?"
"Dolores. Dolores Lindqvist."
"Mrs. Lindqvist, are you traveling with anyone today?"
"My son. Curtis." Her gaze went past him, toward the long corridor that led to the trains. "He had a call. With his work. He said the wheelchair man would bring me along and he'd meet me at the gate, he needed somewhere quiet, it was very important. It's a very important call." She said it the way a person repeats a sentence she has been told several times. "He works very hard."
Desmond nodded and said nothing. There was nothing about that sentence he needed to say anything to.
"And the wheelchair man?"
"He had another passenger. He said he'd come back."