The Steel-Boned Corset

I was tightening the last bolt on the main rotor hub, my fingers stained with hydraulic fluid, when James started talking.

It was 5:14 AM. The island was a smudge of green in the gray Atlantic mist, and the wind was already picking up, rattling the hangar doors. I had twenty minutes to finish the pre-flight check, drink my coffee, and get us into the air for his 7:00 AM board meeting in Charleston. I did not have time for James.

I didn’t look up. I knew the rhythm of his voice before I heard the words. It was a steady, low-frequency hum, like a generator that refused to idle.