By the next morning, the news had spread across the globe.

I sat in the quiet corner of the airport hotel lobby, watching the television mounted on the wall.

The news anchor’s voice was sharp.

“A massive corporate conspiracy has been laid bare tonight following the emergency landing of Flight Seven Eight Two in Shannon.”

The screen showed footage of police officers entering the airline’s London headquarters, carrying boxes of confiscated files.

“The airline’s Chief Executive Officer and three board members have been arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit mass murder,” the anchor continued.

Then, a photograph of Malachi’s father appeared on the screen.

“Investigators credit the survival of the two hundred and forty passengers to twelve-year-old Malachi Brooks, who took the controls after both pilots were incapacitated.”

Malachi sat next to me on the vinyl sofa, quietly eating a plate of toast.

He did not look up at the screen.

“Are you doing alright, Malachi?” I asked.

“I just wanted to make sure we landed,” he said quietly. “Like my dad would have.”

“You did,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. “You did exactly what he would have done.”