Simon grips his phone tight between his fingers, the jostle of the plane makes him worry it’ll disappear into the abyss of the aisle if he’s not careful.

He can hear the thunder, can hear the storm that rages, as if the gods are angry, bickering; no greater fear than mortal man’s milliseconds. One shift and he’s back to stardust.

You’re waiting at the airport; your voice is his prayer—he’s not a religious man, but he might start.

“Can’t wait to meet you,” he rasps out. “Been waitin’ months.”