“Sir?”

Asadeem’s eyes danced underneath his closed lids. He grunted out a low-throated hmm sound.

“Sir?” the woman repeated.

One eyelid lifted, revealing the base of an off-white, bloodshot eyeball. Time zones were a bitch and jet lag was real.

His eye spun underneath the half-open lid. “What?” he croaked in his broken, gravelly voice. Jet lag and partying; can’t forget the partying.

“I’m so sorry to wake you.” The woman leaned over him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His lid lifted, showing the vein-filled eye. Red streaks cut rivers of blood through his sclera and around his cornea. Asadeem’s eye burned as the dry, cool air came into contact. It agitated him.

“No shit,” he said. “You’re sorry?”

The woman hesitated for a split second before regaining her composure and barreling forward.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. You’re in the wrong seat,” she glanced over her shoulder. “This seat belongs to another passenger.”

Asadeem harrumphed, glanced across the aisle at an empty seat, dug into his left-hand pants pocket, and pulled out his iPhone. He read 11:59 PM as his face ID unlocked the screen — and then clicked through the screens, all with one eye still loosely shut. He turned the phone around when he found what he was looking for.

“Nope.” One truncated syllable along with the airline app showing his boarding pass. He was in the correct seat and this attendant could fuck right off.

She leaned in and read the dim screen. “I apologize, Mr.—”

“Asa,” he blurted, a little louder than he intended. He was feeling pissed, but not angry.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just call me Asa — Like the continent, Asia.” This wasn’t quite right, but it’s what he adopted years ago after he got tired of explaining and re-pronouncing his actual name every five minutes. Native English speakers were so full of shit sometimes. Even after living in America for more than twenty-five years and becoming a naturalized citizen, he just didn’t have the bandwidth to keep correcting people.

“Apologies again, Mr. Asa.” She had no trouble with Asia, as he knew she wouldn’t.

“It’s fine,” he lied. All Asadeem wanted to do was close his squinted eye and sleep. The sooner he did, the sooner he’d be back on the East Coast. Not that he thought he’d sleep much on the flight.

Three times zones were a bitch, especially for only a weekend. Just as soon as he was beginning to acclimate, it was time to go back. And couple that with switching to Vegas time, where everyone is up until ungodly hours every night. He was used to being out by ten in his quiet home. It wasn’t even dark in Vegas by the equivalent seven o’clock. It was a long, long, exhausting weekend. Almost not even worth the headache that was building behind his stinging, bloodshot eyes. Almost.

The attendant turned and spoke to the person about their correct seat. He overheard her say that she’d made a mistake and they’d overshot it by a few rows. Then, he was out.

***

Asadeem was jostled awake again a short time later as the plane sped down the runway, weaving a wild path as it barreled down the tarmac. This time, he managed to crack both lids but only just enough to see a blurry vision of the seats around him. The cabin lights were dimmer than before he fell asleep.

Good god, he thought, is this pilot drunk?

He swayed back and forth in his seat as the plane accelerated, adjusting hard to the left and right as the pilot tried to maintain the center line. He squeezed his eyes shut. Flying was a pain in the ass. He could hear his wife’s voice inside his head, I knew this was going to happen.

Asadeem realized he was gripping the armrests of his seat, his anxiety inched higher with each over-correction of the tiller — the device that controls the front steering mechanism. Somewhere in the depths of his groggy mind, he pulled that reference from some movie or another. Maybe it was the one with Tom Hanks landing the plane in the Hudson? Asadeem didn’t know.

The plane jerked hard to the right; Asadeem’s inertia pulled him to the left, dangling over the aisle, his lap belt pulled taut around his waist. Then, his world and weight shifted downward as the plane lifted off the runway. He could feel the downward force pulling him into his seat as the plane tilted further back, pushing its nose into and through the surrounding air, breaking gravity’s grip and tearing through the air pressure sludge it was trudging through.

Before leveling out, the aircraft banked hard to the left, spinning its nose away from the west, pointing its trajectory toward the distant Atlantic ocean — albeit still a few thousand miles to the east. The wind outside of the plane whipped frenzied gusts, visibly shaking the wings just outside the window. Not that Asa saw any of this with his eyes snapped closed. The force of the directional changes pulled tiny trails of tears out of the corners of his eyes, or maybe it was the tired rearing its ugly head. His wife’s words crept into his brain again, This is why I can’t fly. I’ll die along with you. Then who will take care of the dog?

“Get out of my head!” he muttered. The noise of the engines covered his words.

After a moment of turning, the plane leveled out, the slight g-forces eased off, and Asa breathed again. He wasn’t aware that he’d held his breath until things were settled. His heart thumped in his chest, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his neck.

Worst part’s over, he thought. His hands eased off the armrest. Asa didn’t have problems with flying; once he was in the air, there was something about taking off and landing that made him squirm. He cracked his eyes open again, scanned the people around him, and tried to relax into his seat. Everyone seemed to be OK or in their own little world, at least.

The announcement system pinged from the little speaker above him. It was the captain.

“Good evening, folks. This is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard Delta Flight 523, nonstop service to Atlanta. Apologies for our rough start this evening. The wind shear is going to play a factor in our flight tonight. I’ll be keeping the seat belt sign on and asking you to stay seated for most of the duration of the flight tonight. We’re predicting a sporadic but significant amount of clear air turbulence as we make our way back east. Try to relax and get some sleep, and we’re on time for our landing in Atlanta. We should be there before you know it. Thanks for flying with us.” There was a muted click as the captain’s microphone went silent.

Asadeem reached into his right pants pocket and produced a set of earbuds. The airline gave them out for the in-flight entertainment on each flight. He unwrapped them, stuffed the earbuds into his ears, then plugged them into the jack on the entertainment console, and clicked the blank screen on the headrest in front of him. The monitor burst into life. The brightness of the screen was at one hundred percent, and it sent photons hurdling at the speed of light directly into the retinas of Asa’s dry, worn-out, tired eyes. He grimaced and groped at the touch screen to lower the brightness. After a moment of panic, he found the adjustment buried in the settings section of the UI. Asa dragged the slider all the way to the left, bringing the screen down to minimum brightness. He scrolled through the movie choices, but the burning in his dog-tired eyes told him that watching anything wasn’t going to be an option. He opened the music app, clicked through the playlists, and settled on the second option, an eclectic mix of Western classical music. It didn’t matter much to him; anything laid back did the trick. He knew he’d be asleep again before the first song finished. The plane lurched as they hit a pocket of turbulent air. He ignored it the best he could.

The music started, low and soft in his earbuds. It was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Asa tested the waters by shutting off the screen in front of him and was thankful to hear the music continue. He pressed the button and reclined his seat a few inches. It wasn’t much; anything was better than nothing. He was asleep again before the end of the first movement.

Next Chapter: Life Sentence (Sample) - Billy Hanson