The last hundred feet came up fast the way the last hundred feet always do.

The crosswind tried to push the nose off the centerline and Davis corrected and over-corrected and settled it, and Maya called the drift and called the sink rate in the flat unhurried cadence that a cockpit needs most when there is most reason to shout, and the runway rose toward them wet and gleaming under its lights.

She was not flying the airplane.

She wanted to be clear about that, afterward, every time the story got told back to her with herself at the center of it.