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climbing aboard and strain to look. To begin with I glimpse only the side of a shoulder. Then the woman steps into view. She glances briefly down the plane at us and then continues talking to Sweaty and the Giant. She’s youngish, in jeans, with a leather bag over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a silky silver headscarf and black-rimmed glasses that obscure her eyes. Her companion, in dull gray office trousers and a white shirt, comes over and offers her a cigarette. She takes one, and he lights it with a gold lighter. The flame blazes up, making her glasses glint. She takes a drag, turns to him, slaps him on the back, seems animated—​happy, even—​as though this is some kind of reunion, some sort of celebration.
    â€œWho do you think
they
are?” David whispers. “More hijackers?”
    â€œLooks like it.” My heart sinks. Now there’s no chance of rescue.
    â€œJust wait till I tell my friends!” Tim says. “I’ve been held up at gunpoint, sat near a bomb; that man at the back wanting to go to the toilet nearly got us all shot, and now the plane’s filling up with hijackers.” But then his face clouds over. “They won’t believe me, will they?”
    â€œI think they might,” I say. “It’ll probably be on TV.”
    I think of Marni, Dad, and the boys watching the news, maybe seeing footage of the plane landing in Beirut. What will they think? What will they say? Do they know I’m here? Do they know I’m still alive?
    â€œAre you thirsty?” Tim asks.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œI expect they’ll put some more food and drinks on for us soon.” But no food or drinks arrive. Rosemary and Celia continue to accompany passengers up and down to the toilets. There are two at the front and four at the back. Celia is in charge of our side of the plane. She looks nervous when she isn’t flashing her fake smile.
    Suddenly a baby begins to cry. It’s a tense, high-pitched wail, of pain or panic. It sounds shocking at first and then becomes unbearable. It’s recognizable somehow, as though on some level he’s doing what we all want to. I turn to try to see the baby. They’re a few rows behind us. The mother is asking Celia whether she thinks he’s teething or has an earache. Celia looks at her as if to say,
How on earth should I know? You’re the mother.
But she bends down and peers at the baby.
    A tall, pale woman in a gingham dress across the aisle and a little way back calls for help. Her daughter has just been sick all over her front. The smell of it filters down the aisle. We hold our noses, pull our tops over our faces, and then giggle hysterically, it’s so awful.
    Rosemary comes to mop it up with tissues, disinfectant, and water. I definitely couldn’t do her job. Unfortunately the combination of disinfectant and vomit makes the smell worse.
    The baby continues to scream, though I think I’m getting used to it now. I can almost block it out. The Giant lumbers down and escorts the mother and baby to a bulkhead seat at the front, where he says there’s a bassinet. He still looks as though nothing fazes him, like this hijacking is all in a day’s work.
    I’m desperate to stretch my legs and am trying hard not to think about how claustrophobic it is in here. At last Celia beckons to David for his turn to go to the toilet. I’m next!
    While he’s away from his seat, I watch the Arab family opposite us. The man wears an immaculate long white robe, a
thawb,
with crisp ironed creases down the sleeves. His wife is entirely in black. I can’t see her face, just the edge of a soft gold bangle as she tends to their little son. She has her arm around him while she reads to him. His fat little legs waggle with delight. Seeing her tenderness toward him reminds me of home, and another wave of homesickness washes over me. What I’d do to be with my