Their flight out of Richmond left at an ungodly hour; they were in the air before Remy was usually even out of bed most mornings. He expected to catch a few hours’ sleep on the short flight to Houston, where they would switch planes. But he was sitting next to Braden and this was his son’s first time ever in an airplane. Despite the early hour, Braden was too wired up to just sit back and relax. He sat with his nose pressed to the window, every few minutes, he elbowed his father to point out something only he could see. “Look, Dad!” he’d cry, jabbing at the glass. “I can see your house! Look!”
“You can’t,” Remy told him. “It’s still dark out. The sun’s not even up. Can we just close the shade and—”
“I can see the headlights on the interstate!” Braden crowed. “The cars all look so tiny up
