A few hours later, Amara sat quietly in the airport’s waiting area, her mind replaying the events on the plane. She still felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the strange mix of fear and courage from saving a life. She glanced at the photo of her mother, wishing she could share this moment with her. Amara’s thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on her shoulder. It was one of the flight attendants, a kind woman with concerned eyes.
“Sweetheart, Mr. Coleman wants to speak with you,” the attendant said softly. Amara nodded, her heart pounding as she was led through a maze of corridors to a small, private room in the airport. Richard Coleman lay on a makeshift hospital bed, an oxygen mask resting on his chest. His steely eyes softened as they met Amara’s.
