profound weariness that had nothing to do with travel.
"If you insist." He slowly bent forward, reaching under the ottoman.
For a triumphant moment, Eleanor believed he was finally
complying, gathering his bag to retreat to economy.
Instead, Arthur hauled the scuffed leather briefcase onto his
lap. His arthritic fingers moved deliberately, popping the tarnished
brass clasps with a loud *click* that echoed in the silent, watchful
cabin. He reached inside, bypassing a stack of technical schematics,
and pulled out a single, neatly folded piece of thick cardstock. He
did not use a smartphone app; he preferred the irrefutable proof of
paper. Without a word, he extended his hand, offering the
document to Eleanor.
leanor snatched the boarding pass, ready to smugly
point out his seat in row 34. Her eyes darted to the bold
print. Name: PENDELTON / ARTHUR. Flight: 402. Class: FIRST. Seat:
2A. But it was the emblem at the top that made her breath catch in
her throat. Printed in shimmering foil was the airline's most
exclusive insignia: *Chairman's Circle / Ten Million Miler*.