The airframe jolted once, hard, as if it had been struck.

And then the ugly rhythmic shudder smoothed away into ordinary air, and the airplane flew, and the silence on the flight deck had a different quality to it than before.

You were right, Davis said, quietly.

Maya did not answer and did not feel anything that could be called triumph.

Her mind had already gone back three rows and eight seats, to a boy asleep under a thin blanket, and forward again, to the dark storm building on the weather radar between them and the ground.

She noticed something else in that moment, too, a thing she would only understand fully later: that being right had not felt like winning.