At eighty-five years old, Eleanor was a woman who seemed to exist in a different era. She was small and slightly stooped, her silver

hair pinned with a neat, archival precision behind her ears. She wore a beige coat that had been meticulously pressed but

was undeniably weathered by decades of wear. Her shoes were sensible

and scuffed, telling a story of thousands of miles walked on modest pavements. She gripped her carry-on with thin, fragile

fingers, her eyes darting through the cabin with a mixture of profound nervous anticipation and a quiet, hidden resolve.

As the flight attendant led her toward an assigned window seat, the tranquil hum of the cabin was shattered by a voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“Absolutely not,” snapped a man in a tailored charcoal suit. He looked to be in his early fifties, his wrist adorned

with a watch that cost more than most family sedans. He didn’t just look at Eleanor; he looked through her,

his face contorting with a visceral sense of offense. “I am not sitting next to her.

This is business class. I didn’t pay a fortune to be uncomfortable for five hours because of some clerical error.

Look at her—she clearly belongs in the back.”