Luis paused with the phone receiver in his hand.

The lobby phone on his desk suddenly began to ring.

The telephone on the marble desk rang a second time.

Luis did not answer it.

He kept his eyes on my mother, his hand resting on the plastic receiver.

The air conditioning hummed, but I could feel the heavy Miami humidity pressing against the glass doors behind me.

“Are you going to answer that, Luis?” Linda asked, her voice sweet and sharp all at once.

Luis looked at me, waiting for a signal.

“Answer it, Luis,” I said.

My voice sounded dry, like paper scraping against stone.

Luis picked up the receiver and spoke quietly into it, his eyes never leaving Linda’s face.

Linda took a slow, deliberate step back from me.

She smoothed the front of her linen trousers.

“The FAA takes anonymous tips very seriously, Mark,” she said.

“They have to,” she added, tilting her head. “For the passengers’ sake.”

“You are insane,” I said.

“I am a mother,” Linda said. “And a grandmother.”

She pointed a manicured finger toward the leather sofa where Hannah’s four children sat.