“Maybe you have the wrong row,” I said.

“Would you like me to read your boarding pass for you?

Sometimes the gate agents print the numbers quite small.”

He let out a short, sharp breath through his nose.

“I’m quite capable of finding my own seat,” he said with a stiff, artificial smile.

“I don’t need help from a tourist.”

He turned his back to me and took a step toward the front bulkhead.

I let go of the silver pin and sat back against the cold leather seat.