Jet plane packed, she has no name. No use for one. Lost bags and regrets. Fly fast so past can’t catch her. Seat mate strangers give salvation. Flotation device confessions absolve clouded conscience. Mercy offers a cocktail with vomit bag. Divine intervention. Peanut shells rent napkin space to reluctant tears waiting for a better offer. The pilot’s voice sounds military like voice beating her body with precision. Her scars stand at attention. Bruises call attention to themselves. In-flight film has its tongue cut out. Speaking up only causes trouble. As landing approaches, window goes dark.