by Mia Carter
: I haven’t even said yes
: wait why do you know how much my kidneys are worth?
But my phone pings and buzzes beside me, and I see an email confirmation pop up with my name on it.
This is really happening.
: you already bought me a ticket?
// Please. I promise I don’t need your kidneys, I just need that drive. You can meet me somewhere safe and public, no risk. What else can I do to convince you?
: this is insane
I have to admit, it does kind of feel tempting to be whisked away like this, caught up in someone else’s adventure. I’ve always wanted to travel, but it’s always been so out of reach—and this, a ticket for free, just dropped in my lap… No, this is crazy. I can’t seriously be considering it.
Okay. I’m slightly considering it.
Continuing to scroll through articles and pictures of Logan Weiss on my phone levels of considering it.
Checking the weather forecast and suggested packing lists for Helsinki levels of considering it.
Opening up my desk drawer, looking for my passport levels of considering it.
“This is nuts,” I mutter. “Absolutely bonkers.”
I look back up at my monitor. No new messages from Mr. Weiss—and then, wiggling my mouse to no effect, I am forced to admit that my computer has frozen. It does this sometimes. Again, I move my mouse, trying to get any kind of response. Finally, with a sigh, I jab my finger into the power button, wait for it to power all the way off. Then I prod the power button again, listening to it whir and beep and do whatever it needs to do. This time, it sounds like a bunch of unruly squirrels are hosting their X-Games finals inside the case. The loading screen comes up, and then I wait, and wait, and wait a little longer.
After a moment of holding my breath and saying a prayer to whoever is the patron saint of hardware, my heart sinks as the screen goes black.
“Oh, great, this is just what I need.”
All of my life is on this machine. Literally, all of it: my client files, my drive of scanned family photos and all of our genealogy research, my sketches, everything. If they’re all gone, then my freelance dreams will be royally screwed, my sisters will probably never speak to me again, and my comic—well, that’s just doodles, that doesn’t much matter. But the rest of it?
My mind’s made up. It’s crazy, it’s probably dangerous, but something in my gut is telling me to take the chance. I’m leaving on a jet plane, and when I get there, I’m holding Logan Weiss to his promises. And he better make all of this right.
Chapter Two
Logan
For the briefest of moments, the fear that grips me feels like the plane’s tipped into free fall. On my laptop’s screen, the terminal suddenly is unresponsive. My chat with the driver who found my keys is abruptly cut short.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to bring the connection to her machine back up. But it’s gone—and not from my end. Reason suggests that her asking for a new computer might have indicated how precarious her current setup was. Do I text her and risk coming off too pushy? I don’t want to scare her, but I need my keys. If I push too hard, and she balks, what will I do then?
“Is something wrong, sir?” The flight attendant beside my aisle snaps me out of my musings. Her blue eyes are very blue and very bright as they meet mine. “Can I get you anything?”
“Oh,” I say, forcing a smile to my face. “No, everything’s fine. My computer’s just— Can I get a gin and tonic, please?”
“Would you like it over ice?”
“Yes, please.”
She nods and strides off down the narrow aisle.
What am I supposed to do now?
Inhale on a slow count. Exhale. Breathe. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Think, don’t panic. Try to stay clear-headed—as if my exhaustion wasn’t as tangible as the seat beneath me, as clear as the screen in front of me tracking the progress of the flight as it crests across the frozen North Atlantic.
I’m just so tired.
Have been for weeks, maybe months. Longer than I can count, at any rate. Sleep has never come easy for me. My mind just spins too fast, the curse of too many ideas. And lately I’m so far beyond burning the candle at both ends, I don’t honestly think I have a candle left. It’s just melted wax and the charred remnants of a wick, and the fire of my own exhaustion has finally started to burn me. All that remains is a ghost of a chance. A risky, possibly futile hope that a complete stranger will want to help me.
And the driver’s words, from the chat, sear themselves into my brain: I haven’t even said yes.
No, she hadn’t. And she’d be right to refuse it, really. By any good sense and all of the internet safety that we were raised with, she’d be right to tell me to take a hike.
After the underpaid librarians of the nineties lured us into the world of computing by promising our pixels safe passage across the Oregon Trail, they cautioned us to never give our real names to strangers on the internet. Hell, they told us not to get into cars with strangers, too, but here we are, using the internet to find strangers’ cars to ride in. And buying last-minute international tickets for women we’ve met once. Everything’s upside-down. Maybe things have changed enough that an otherwise sensible-looking woman in her twenties would take a chance on this. On me.
The connection is dead, though, so I have no way of knowing.
It must be something on her side. The wifi is good enough here in first class, and there hadn’t been a drop. Pulling up a speed test confirms that it’s not me. I run back through everything I can think of, my thoughts sparking like discharged electricity, going every direction at once. No. I don’t think it’s my fault.
I mean, losing the keys, yeah, that’s totally on me.
“Shit,” I say again, softly, and rake my hands back through my hair as I look around the cabin, as if the answer to my desperation is going to be written over the light for the lavatory or neatly stowed in an overhead compartment. White lights lead to red lights and red lights lead to exits, but nothing leads me to an answer. Beside me, another navy-suited flight attendant comes past, bringing a blanket and a pillow to someone in the row behind me. Everything is droning engine noise and vibration. Pressure, from without and from within.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
Helsinki, Finland, is probably lovely this time of year, but my trip is for business, not pleasure. Two points of business, actually. Firstly, the Infosec Europe conference invited me to speak on a panel, and for that I don’t need the drive at all. It’s more of a Q&A type thing, me and a handful of other security professionals talking about the landscape of the industry, new trends, exciting improvements. It’s not the first panel I’ve participated in, and I’m not worried about it.
No, it’s the other meeting that has me right on the edge of freaking out.
I’ve been working for months—nearly a year, actually—to set up a private meeting with potential investors who will all be attending the conference. Coordinating the schedules of the influential is practically a full-time job in and of itself, but somehow, my assistant Jonathan and I had managed.
And for what?
At that meeting, I had hoped to show my pitch deck, a set of presentation slides chock-full of proprietary data, research, analysis, and a proposal for a new product that my company, WhiteLight, has been working on in secret for nearly two years. I was supposed to wow them all, and now all that irreplaceable information is in the hands of a total stranger who probably thinks I am, at best, eccentric and irresponsible, and at worst, insane.
I thought I had been doing everything right. Some of our exclusive research had been turning up in public spaces in the last few months, ahead of announcements, making me suspect that there was a mole of some sort.
How clever I had been, working on it exclusively at home, in those few late night, early morning sleepless moments, thinking keeping the files under virtual lock and key would keep them safe. How stupid, leaving those same files
in the back of her car. With the kids running around, the blinding exhaustion, and my urgency to get to the gate, I’d made a truly inept mistake—deeply ironic, considering I’m the CEO of a fucking information security company.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
My only saving grace had been the little bit of code I’d left on that drive—a bit of a paranoid security measure designed to catch the mole should the drive fall into the wrong hands, but one that had come in handy. At least I know where the files are.
I rub my hand over my face and settle my forefinger and thumb on the bridge of my nose, pinching and massaging away the sharp, pointed stress headache that’s already threatening to settle in.
She isn’t going to come, I think. Can I do what I need to do without it? I can still meet with everyone, but if I have nothing to present, that will seriously set me back.
“Excuse me, sir. Your drink?” the flight attendant says beside me. I open my eyes and plaster on something like a smile, lowering my hand from my face so I can at least make eye contact.
“Thank you,” I say, and I slide my laptop to the side of my tray table to make space for her to set it down.
She smiles as she places the drink on a square napkin, then walks away.
I pick up the tiny cup, downing half of it in one swallow. In the stale, recycled air of the plane, I know my senses are dulled. Taste, smell. But it’s good. Juniper, a bite of herby-something. Tonic water.
It’s good. This is fine. It’s going to be fine. Right?
What am I going to do?
I toss back the rest of my drink and set the ice-filled cup back down. Alcohol is supposed to be a depressant and can’t possibly have affected me this fast, but paired with the anxiety, my body feels primed, charged. I feel like I need to go for a run.
Not likely here on a plane, but the impulse is there nonetheless.
I can’t outrun this, though. I’ve got to face it.
In the grand scheme of things, my problems truly are inconsequential when compared to the things most of the world has to deal with. I know what it was like, though, growing up and wondering where my next meal was going to come from. I remember saving up and covering my mom’s bills, shopping at secondhand stores, not because it was trendy, but because that was what we could afford. In the chill of the airplane’s recycled air, I can feel the memory of the times when we’d had to decide between keeping the heat on or buying groceries. Assuring her that I could layer on another sweater, and then, near the end, finding her shivering and trying to hide it from me.
She hadn’t wanted me to worry.
The memories are as sharp and vivid now as they ever were—the hard times, the difficult choices, that made me who I am. Through it all, my mother had always pushed me to work smarter, not harder.
You’ve got a brain, Logan. You should use it. Think.
I smile sadly. The voice in my head is my mom’s, and yet again, I feel a pang of regret—this time, one that has nothing to do with files, or data security, or presentations. This one is an older, deeper pain. One that I don’t think I’ll ever resolve. At least, not on an international flight, unless they’ve got a really good therapist in first class.
Unlikely.
All around me, the smell and feel and sound of the pressurized cabin makes my brain feel like it’s being squeezed. The drink won’t help my growing headache, but it might make me relax enough to sleep, and with four or so hours left on this international flight, sleep would be the best choice. The seat is comfortable, but it’s still an airplane seat, and I haven’t really ever been able to sleep well on flights like these, even if I wanted to.
My one chance to salvage this whole catastrophe is that Chloe agrees to come. Jokes about organ theft probably hadn’t been the way to win her trust, but if she takes me up on this, I’ll be forever grateful. That’s a pretty big if—but I learned a long time ago that money has a way of solving a lot of problems, making paths appear in an otherwise-impenetrable thicket, opening doors that would’ve remained closed. Money is the ultimate lever, and status, close behind it. That’s the only security I have, or ever will have. My money, and my name, and everything I’ve built.
I have to trust that she’ll come through. If she does, I’ll do just about anything to thank her, whether or not the pitch itself goes well. If she trusts me, if I can trust her, then I’m golden.
Please, I think. Chloe, please, trust me.
As if on cue, my cell phone buzzes.
Did you fry my computer?
It’s her—of course it’s her. The message appears under my airplane selfie, a reply from Chloe’s number.
Hastily, I type my reply, cursing how small phones like this always feel like tiny toys in my hands. No, I didn’t. Why would I do that?
It won’t start back up, comes her reply. I thought maybe you did something to it. With your hacker powers…
It wasn’t me. Probably something with the power supply, I text back. I don’t know for sure, but I can replace it. Get you any kind of new computer you like.
You better get my files off of here, too, Chloe texts. All of my work. I’m completely screwed if all of that is gone.
You don’t have it backed up anywhere?
Pot, meet kettle, comes her swift answer.
Despite myself, a soft laugh escapes my mouth. I feel myself smiling.
Fair enough. I’ll replace your computer, and do my best to recover all of your files. So you’ll come?
The little three-dot animation comes up, then pauses. Like she’s typing something, editing it, thinking about her reply. Yes, or no? It should be a simple answer. But finally, the animation goes away. And my last message is stuck on “read,” no matter how intently I stare at it.
Nothing to do but wait, then.
I close my eyes. Just for a moment. I’m way too wired to sleep, but at least my phone will alert me the very second her answer comes.
I wake with a jolt as the pilot comes on the intercom again, announcing that we’re making our final approach into Helsinki-Vantaa airport. Local time, around five in the morning.
My head feels like it’s filled with old socks, too groggy from the nap that didn’t feel refreshing at all. I shake it off, though, and check my phone.
I’m at the airport now, Chloe’s latest text reads.
It didn’t wake me up, but I’m elated to see her answer. I feel a thrill of gratitude course through me. She’s coming, and maybe all isn’t lost after all.
Chloe, you’re amazing, I text back. Thank you.
In response, a few minutes later, she sends me a selfie of her own. She’s making a comically terrified face, standing in front of the departures board, pointing at her flight.
Only fair that you got a selfie back, she sends, and then, So you know what I look like.
How could I forget?
Right, of course, she replies. You probably have my blood type, too, for that organ theft plan.
You seem abnormally concerned about organ theft, Chloe, I type back, smiling again to myself. Is this a thing for you?
Well I would assume it’s a “thing” for pretty much everyone, she sends back. Especially single women traveling overseas on the good faith of a guy they just met. This is exactly how true crime documentaries start. They better get someone cute to play me. ScarJo at least. Wait how tall is she?
I wouldn’t know about those documentaries, because I don’t watch them. I rather like to sleep at night.
Where’s your sense of adventure?
I chuckle. This is more than enough adventure for me.
You’re boring, Mr. Weiss, and I respect that.
I’m not boring! I don’t know why this exchange is making me smile. Just hours ago, I was a nervous wreck.
To be honest with you, I don’t really watch them either, her next text reads. My dad does. I just thought you should know. Also, this is how I cope with nerves.
Well, maybe we’ll be nervous together, then. After all, you could be the one pl
anning to steal my kidneys.
Now there’s a thought, she texts back. That actually makes me feel better.
I ponder all of this, the realization that I am smiling down at my phone, now. Quickly, I scroll back up and take a look at her face. She’s cute. And probably terrified. Well, now I know that when Chloe Weaver is scared, she makes dark jokes, just like I do. I’m not sure what to make of that thought, but I see the alert that new messages have come in, and I scroll back down.
I’m heading to the gate now, her text reads. You should have your keys and files back in nine short hours. You’re reimbursing me for drinks.
Thank you, I send back to her. Chloe, seriously. I can’t thank you enough.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to please place all electronic devices into airplane mode,” the flight attendant from earlier says, her blue eyes staring pointedly at my still-open laptop. “As well as stow your items for landing.”
“Right,” I say, swiping over on the screen of my phone to change the settings. “Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem, sir,” she replies. “Would you like some assistance with that?”
“No, no thank you.”
She still flashes me that smile again, and I reach for the bag at my feet, closing my laptop and sliding it into the sleeve. The screen on the seat back in front of me shows how close we are, and my legs tingle a bit from sitting so long. With my tray table in its fully upright and locked position, and my seat back raised, all I have to do now is wait.
I want to be down on the ground. I want to be… No, I want to see Chloe. Because I want my drive back, so I can put this mess behind me, and so that she can get back to her normal life. Nine hours can’t go quickly enough, for both our sakes.
Chapter Three
Chloe
“Okay, hear me out before you tell me I’m completely losing my marbles.”
“Okay?”
From the other end of the call, my younger sister’s voice sounds deeply skeptical, but with an opening volley like that one, who can really blame her?
I take a deep breath and hoist my worn floral duffle bag a little higher on my shoulder. From the massive windows that frame Gate C37, I can look down on the movements of planes, luggage trains, and TSA automobiles. My plane is waiting there already, meals being loaded inside, inspectors in their safety-orange suits walking and checking parts on the wing and engine. The sun, slanting down through the glass shelter high overhead, is an amber-orange.