It had been some time since I watched the horizon line disappear as my plane ascended out of some city and onto the next, my eyes usually closed tightly – under the influence of sleeping pills or a scourge massive anxiety.
It was night. Our red and white plane flew south, Los Angeles – its Hollywood plaid, gold and glittering and altogether unreal – bleeding into Manhattan Beach into Palos Verdes, a spartan hill covered in the lights from ocean-view mansions, spaced far apart the way rich people like their homes.
I dare you not to be scared.
I dare you.
I thought about India and faith and eighty-nine. Things that will never mean anything to anyone but me. Things that were currently keeping me mentally float while we made our way to thirty thousand feet. My future in three little words.