I set the receiver down on the flat plastic surface next to Malachi’s knee.

“Malachi, I will be right back,” I said, squeezing his shoulder.

“Okay, Grace,” he said, staring intensely at the artificial horizon screen.

I stepped out of the flight deck, locking the heavy door securely behind me.

The air in the galley felt colder than usual, and there was a strange, thin haze near the ceiling lights.

I pulled back the heavy blue curtain that separated the galley from the first-class cabin.

The cabin lights were dimmed for the night crossing, but the individual reading lights cast sharp beams over the passengers.

In seat 2B, Gerald Whitmore was slumped back against his leather headrest, his face pale.

His expensive silk tie was loosened, and his collar was open.

“Excuse me, flight attendant,” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.

“Yes, Mr. Whitmore?” I asked, stepping closer to his seat.

“The air,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “It feels… very heavy.”

I noticed his hand was shaking violently.