“Ladies and gentlemen,” Abram announces, apparently starting to enjoy his captain schtick, “we are now approaching London, Ontario, and will begin a gentle descent toward Toronto . . .”
Julie holds her stare a moment longer, her lips pressed tight, then gets up and shuts herself in the restroom.
I glance at Nora, but she’s not eavesdropping this time. She and M are engaged in their own conversation, something about how much they miss coffee. I feel my stomach lift as the plane begins to shed altitude.
“If you look straight ahead,” our captain continues, “you’ll see the end of this great country, both literally and figuratively.”
I look ahead as directed, eager to shake off the uneasy feelings that have attached themselves to my mind like little burrowing parasites.
“We passed the original border a while back, but that one was a bit too restrictive for America’s expanding waistline, so we had to loosen the belt. What’s a hundred miles between allies? What’s a few dozen dead troops?”
“He sure gets jolly when it comes to the grim stuff,” Nora mutters.
Grim as it may be, this will do for safe ground. It’s the past, but not my past. Just a page I remember from some moldy history book. The mass migrations followed by the bizarre border adjustments, the lunatic logic that if enough Americans lived there, it must be America. The nation creeping northward, racing to reabsorb its fleeing populace until an exasperated Canada finally drew the line.
I see that line on the horizon. It cuts across Ontario’s fallow farmlands like an old scar.
“Daddy?” Sprout says, blinking groggily as she wanders up the aisle. “Is that a wall like in Mexico?”
“It sure is, little girl,” he replies with morbid amusement. “Our prison was an international effort. We built the floor, Canada built the ceiling.” He lowers the intercom and looks back at his daughter through the doorway. “But it’s different this time. This time we’re going over it.”
Sprout smiles, then yawns, and plops into a seat near the front. She rubs the eye under the patch and closes them both.
Julie emerges from the restroom. The shadow I glimpsed in her eyes has spread to her face; her jaw is set with quiet determination—to do what?
“Abram,” she says.
He ignores her. “As we approach our destination, please return to your seats. All electronic devices—”
“Abram.” Julie steps into the cockpit doorway.
Silence, then a sigh. “What.”
“Are you sure we can cross the wall? My family tried the Washington gate once and the automation almost gunned us down.”
“When was this?”
“About seven years ago?”
“That’s about when their military collapsed. No way the wall is still online, and it never had anti-aircraft anyway. It was more of a symbol than a real fortification.”
I glance out the window. The wall is close enough to make out the giant red maple leaves painted along its length like stop signs. How did we provoke our mild neighbor to such a mad act? I suppose even the coolest heads have their limits.
“I was thinking . . . ,” Julie says, “maybe we should check it out on foot first. To make sure it’s safe.”
Abram glances back at her with raised eyebrows. “Never thought I’d hear you advise caution.”
“And you’re suddenly a risk taker?”
“What can I say, you’ve inspired me. Or driven me insane.”
“Abram.” I can’t see either of their faces, but I can see Julie’s grip on the doorframe tightening. “I think we should turn around. Land in Detroit and take the bikes to check out the wall.”
“Land in Detroit?” He laughs. “You want me to add two hundred miles to our flight and spend a whole day on the road just for some pointless recon?”
“We can check the airport for fuel while we’re there. And besides . . .” She hesitates, then pushes ahead. “You saw the notes in the cabin. ‘Facilities’ in Detroit. We need to know what they’re—”
“No we fucking don’t,” he cuts her off. “That’s got nothing to do with us.”
“It’s got everything to do with us!” Julie snaps, her voice rising. “They’re trying to turn this country into some kind of—”
“I thought you were done with this country.” His matter-of-fact tone stops her short. “I thought you wanted to leave.”
Her fingers tremble on the doorframe, but she’s silent.
Abram lets the moment hang while he checks his instruments. “We’re going to cross the wall at eight thousand feet. Nothing’s going to get us. But okay, just to be safe . . .”
He flips a switch, and the seat belt lights blink on.
“. . . there.”
I get out of my seat, watching Julie nervously. She takes a step into the cockpit, and I brace to intervene. But the explosion doesn’t come.
“Abram, listen to me.” There’s no anger. Her voice is low and tremulous. Desperate. “I need to go to Detroit.”
I lean in, trying to catch a glimpse of her face in the cockpit mirror.
“It’s important to me.”
Abram twists around, his brows furrowed. “Why?”