But no one had thought to do less.
Amara continued patting Lily’s back in the same slow rhythm.
Not hurried.
Not for show.
Not nervous.
Just steady.
Andrew lowered himself into the seat across from her.
For the first time in hours, his hands were empty.
It should have felt like relief.
Instead, it left him strangely exposed.
Without a problem to solve, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Your brother,” he said carefully.
“How old is he?”
Amara’s expression shifted.
Just for a moment.
But Andrew caught it.
“He was two.”
The past tense settled between them quietly.
Andrew’s throat tightened.
“Was?”
Amara kept her focus on Lily.
“He died last year.”
The cabin seemed to quiet.
Even the hum of the engines faded beneath the weight of her words.
Andrew looked at her again.
Really looked this time.
The worn sneakers.
