At seventy, Darius visited Northstar’s new training center.
The Flight 418 module had been updated again.
His face was still there.
He watched trainees analyze.
A twenty-two-year-old new flight attendant said:
“I think the biggest mistake is the captain kept searching for evidence he was right after the first assumption.”
Darius smiled from back.
Instructor did not reveal him.
Good.
Another trainee said:
“The flight attendant also knew but didn’t speak firmly.”
Darius watched Evelyn’s legacy.
Another:
“The CEO could have revealed himself earlier.”
Instructor asked:
“Should he have had to?”
“No.”
Exactly.
After session, Darius quietly left.
No speech.
Outside, he sat near window overlooking training aircraft.
A young man in maintenance uniform sat beside him.
Black.
Maybe twenty-five.
The young man glanced over.
“You work here?”
Darius smiled.
“Not anymore.”
“Retired?”
“Something like that.”
The young man sighed.
“Lucky.”
“Bad day?”
“Supervisor keeps assuming I don't know anything.”
Darius looked.
“Do you?”
The young man laughed.
“Sometimes.”
Good answer.
Darius asked:
“Does he assume, or does he know you’re new?”
“Both.”
They talked.
Not about race first.
About training.
Confidence.
Asking for feedback.
Documenting.
Then the young man said:
“I know who you are.”
Darius sighed.
“How long?”
“Whole time.”
“Cruel.”
“My mom sent me the video when I got hired.”
“Of course.”
The young man looked toward aircraft.
“I always thought the story was cool.”
“It wasn't cool while happening.”
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“Did it fix anything?”
Darius thought.
“Some things.”
“Not everything?”
“No.”
The young man nodded.
“Good.”
Darius frowned.
“Good?”
“If you said yes, I’d know training is lying.”
Darius laughed.
Fair.
When Darius was seventy-six, Maya asked him to help move boxes from his house.
He had accumulated documents.
Letters.
Halden’s note.
Frank’s letter.
Old Northstar reports.
He wanted to donate some to company archive.
Maya found the deep-purple suit.
Still in garment bag.
She held it up.
“This one?”