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forty minutes before they could get the engines started again. Being a passenger was something to be endured, even when he trusted the other pilot. He stretched out in the wicker seat, trying not to pay attention to every shift and jostle as the Terrier made its way onto the runway. He could see the flagman as Mitch turned for take-off, the go-flag held up and out, and then the engines picked up speed and the Terrier rumbled forward. He felt the tail lift, and then the ride evened out as the plane left the ground. He glanced out the window, watching the ground drop away, then made himself slump further in his chair and close his eyes. Might as well try to rest, he told himself, and didn’t expect to manage it.
    He drifted off to sleep after a bit, an uneasy doze that broke every time the Terrier dropped a few feet. The air was choppier now, probably because they were over the Sierras, but he refused to look. He hadn’t been a passenger since — well, since right after the War, and he’d realized right away that it was a bad idea. That was the end of 1918, or maybe the beginning of 1919, and the details were a blur, just the panic remaining. He turned his mind firmly away, shifted to a more comfortable position against the thin cushions. He must remember to tell Alma to replace them before they carried passengers, he thought, and drifted off again.
    He dreamed he was back in France, back in the air, crouched in the back cockpit of the Salmson 2 as they circled over the German lines. He knew what was coming, and he pounded on the fuselage behind Robbie’s cockpit, trying to get his attention, banging and pointing to the gun the size of a house that was slowly, inexorably lining up on them. They were so low he could see the Germans frantically turning their aiming wheels, could see the blue-striped shell that they were manhandling into the breech. Machine gunners had seen them, too, were standing up in their holes to fire at them. He tried to return fire, but he couldn’t depress the Lewis gun far enough, and wasted ammunition firing at nothing. And still Robbie flew slowly on, while the giant gun tracked them, mouth open to swallow them —
    He jerked awake, aware in an instant of his surroundings, and that the Terrier was steady in flight. The light had changed: they were chasing the sun now, flying into evening, and he glanced surreptitiously at Jerry, hoping he hadn’t noticed. The other man seemed to be drowsing, too, his book face down on the fold-out table, and Lewis leaned back again. The sound of the engines was like a drug, dragging him back into sleep.
    This time, he was back in the shattered wood behind the German lines. It was probably the only scrap of unshelled land for miles, barely enough to land in, surrounded by trees that had been blasted in some earlier offensive. A few of them were starting to send up green shoots, and a part of him knew that was wrong, just as it was wrong for it to be night, without moon or stars to light his way.
    There was something out there, he knew suddenly, something hungry, and he rummaged in the cockpit until he found a signal flare. He lit it, and the stark light cast a sputtering circle around the damaged plane. Robbie was unconscious in the forward cockpit, and he knew he needed to get him out, drag him into the back so that he could fly them home, but the thing that circled outside the light was just waiting for its chance. He drew his revolver with the other hand, put his back against the fuselage, but the thing came around again, so that he turned, gasping, only to see empty air. Something moved at the edge of his vision, a shadow crawling like gas; he flung himself around, revolver ready, but the thing had moved, was behind him again.
    And then a dog barked, high and distant, and then another and another, baying now like hounds in a pack. The moon broke through the clouds, and he snapped awake, gasping for breath.
    Jerry looked at him, one hand in his pocket. “You