Who's he going to call? A lawyer. Good luck. It's his word against mine. And I've got 12 years of spotless record.
Diane, the old guy said people were recording. People are always recording. Doesn't mean anything. She slammed a tray of glasses into the rack. I've had passengers threaten to sue me six times.
Six. Want to know how many lawsuits actually happened? She held up a fist. Zero. Nobody follows through.
They land. They go home. They forget about it. Trust me. Greg didn't look convinced.
He looked at the curtain again. Through the gap, he could see the back of Isaiah's head, still composed, facing the window. There was something about the man's stillness that made Greg's stomach turn. Not because it was threatening, because it was patient. The kind of patience that belongs to someone who doesn't need to rush because the outcome is already decided.
What if he's somebody? Greg said quietly. Somebody, Diane laughed. It came out louder than she intended. Greg, look at him.
Does he look like somebody to you? Greg didn't answer because the honest answer was yes. Something about the way Isaiah Carter sat in that champagne soaked shirt without moving, without complaining, without showing a single crack. That wasn't the behavior of a man who had been defeated. That was the behavior of a man who was waiting.
Greg had seen waiting before. His father had been a carpenter, a quiet man, the kind of man who measured three times and cut once, who never raised his voice when a client insulted his work, who just nodded, packed his tools, and left. And every single time the client called back within a week, because silence from a competent man is louder than any argument, Greg looked at Isaiah through the curtain gap one more time. The man was still, his hands were still folded, his breathing was still even. But there was something in his posture, a heaviness that wasn't defeat.
It was gravity. The kind of gravity that pulls everything toward it and doesn't need permission. Greg turned back to Diane. She was checking her lipstick in the reflection of a serving tray. Diane?
His voice was barely a whisper. I think we should stop. Stop what? All of it. Just leave him alone.