Jimmy started holding his breath when he was six. That's when his mom stopped living.
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And he smiled at all that regret, hanging about the room, draped across his father's memory like the flag of a belligerent army. He smiled.
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It was a squalid terrain where nothing living was allowed to stay, scraped by glaciers stained brown like the skid marks of nature, dotted with bitter peaks that threatened to claw the belly of the airliner. Up here, Aaron thought, it was all blues riffs and armrests, the dull drone of engines and sun-lit memories of his father. Below, it was all icefalls and tallus and spindrift.
And murder.
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