you half-awake when you get back. We have some strategy to plan.”
“Yay,” I said, without enthusiasm, and finally stood, squeezing through the strip of space between Shelby and the wall in order to reach the aisle. “Do you want anything while I’m up?”
“Bring me a granola bar or something.” Shelby uncoiled herself again, resting her toes lightly on the plane floor as she returned her attention to her laptop. “Maybe an apple.”
“I’ll bring whatever I can find,” I said, and started down the aisle toward the promised kitchenette.
Domestic airplanes are basically designed to keep people seated, settled, and sedated for the duration of flight. If they could, they would install catheters in the seats and strap the people down from takeoff until landing. International flights are a little different, due to the part where sometimes people’s veins explode if they sit still in a pressurized cabin for too long. (This may be a small exaggeration—emphasis on “small,” not “exaggeration.” Deep vein thrombosis is the silent killer of the long-haul flight.) To combat this, international carriers often encourage people to get up, move around, and keep their blood circulating normally. Sure, it means the aisles get a little crowded from time to time, and it makes the TSA nervous, but better that than a bunch of dead passengers.
I inched along the aisle, careful not to hit any of our sleeping business class companions in the head, and made my way into the small, brightly lit alcove of our private kitchenette-slash-minibar. Unlike the self-serve zones in coach, our beverage selection included white wine and a selection of Australian beers, which was denuded enough to tell me that some of our fellow passengers were going to wake up with impressive headaches. Or maybe not: many of them
were
Australian, after all, and Shelby could drink me under the table, the floor, and possibly the Earth’s crust.
The whole thing was nicely designed and laid out. Refrigerated crisper drawers held fruit, small cakes, and an assortment of cheeses and sliced meats, while individually wrapped packets of mixed nuts and granola bars were isolated off to one side, where they wouldn’t pose a risk to people with allergies. I paused in the act of reaching for the cheese drawer, a sudden suspicion overtaking me. “Are there any mice in here?” I asked, loudly enough to be heard, but quietly enough that I wasn’t shouting to the entire section.
The cheese drawer answered with a muffled “hail.”
I groaned, leaning closer and addressing the drawer. “I told you to
stay in the bag
.”
“False!” A brown-furred head poked out from behind a wedge of what I assumed was brie, whiskers quivering with joyful indignation. Aeslin mice were rarely happier than when they were arguing a point of holy writ. “You told us to Stay Quiet and Stay Still until we were in blessed transit. And truly did we heed your words, which echoed the ancient teachings of the God of Unexpected Situations, husband to the Violent Priestess. But once we came to blessed transit, we turned instead to the words of the Noisy Priestess, who did tell us, lo, You May Leave the Bag, Just Don’t Get Caught. And we have left the bag, and we have not been caught!”
The mouse sounded so delighted with its cunning navigation of a point of theological trivia that I didn’t have the heart to argue. I wouldn’t have been able to win if I had: the God of Unexpected Situations was my great-grandfather, and the Noisy Priestess was Grandma Alice. The mice put a lot of stock in each new generation of gods and priestesses, but most of us lacked the cachet to successfully overturn Great-Grandpa Jonathan or his daughter on a point of order. Maybe someday, when I was older and had done more things to actually impress the mice.
Probably not.
“Well, just don’t take
all
the cheese, all right? There are other people riding in business class who might want a midnight
“Yay,” I said, without enthusiasm, and finally stood, squeezing through the strip of space between Shelby and the wall in order to reach the aisle. “Do you want anything while I’m up?”
“Bring me a granola bar or something.” Shelby uncoiled herself again, resting her toes lightly on the plane floor as she returned her attention to her laptop. “Maybe an apple.”
“I’ll bring whatever I can find,” I said, and started down the aisle toward the promised kitchenette.
Domestic airplanes are basically designed to keep people seated, settled, and sedated for the duration of flight. If they could, they would install catheters in the seats and strap the people down from takeoff until landing. International flights are a little different, due to the part where sometimes people’s veins explode if they sit still in a pressurized cabin for too long. (This may be a small exaggeration—emphasis on “small,” not “exaggeration.” Deep vein thrombosis is the silent killer of the long-haul flight.) To combat this, international carriers often encourage people to get up, move around, and keep their blood circulating normally. Sure, it means the aisles get a little crowded from time to time, and it makes the TSA nervous, but better that than a bunch of dead passengers.
I inched along the aisle, careful not to hit any of our sleeping business class companions in the head, and made my way into the small, brightly lit alcove of our private kitchenette-slash-minibar. Unlike the self-serve zones in coach, our beverage selection included white wine and a selection of Australian beers, which was denuded enough to tell me that some of our fellow passengers were going to wake up with impressive headaches. Or maybe not: many of them
were
Australian, after all, and Shelby could drink me under the table, the floor, and possibly the Earth’s crust.
The whole thing was nicely designed and laid out. Refrigerated crisper drawers held fruit, small cakes, and an assortment of cheeses and sliced meats, while individually wrapped packets of mixed nuts and granola bars were isolated off to one side, where they wouldn’t pose a risk to people with allergies. I paused in the act of reaching for the cheese drawer, a sudden suspicion overtaking me. “Are there any mice in here?” I asked, loudly enough to be heard, but quietly enough that I wasn’t shouting to the entire section.
The cheese drawer answered with a muffled “hail.”
I groaned, leaning closer and addressing the drawer. “I told you to
stay in the bag
.”
“False!” A brown-furred head poked out from behind a wedge of what I assumed was brie, whiskers quivering with joyful indignation. Aeslin mice were rarely happier than when they were arguing a point of holy writ. “You told us to Stay Quiet and Stay Still until we were in blessed transit. And truly did we heed your words, which echoed the ancient teachings of the God of Unexpected Situations, husband to the Violent Priestess. But once we came to blessed transit, we turned instead to the words of the Noisy Priestess, who did tell us, lo, You May Leave the Bag, Just Don’t Get Caught. And we have left the bag, and we have not been caught!”
The mouse sounded so delighted with its cunning navigation of a point of theological trivia that I didn’t have the heart to argue. I wouldn’t have been able to win if I had: the God of Unexpected Situations was my great-grandfather, and the Noisy Priestess was Grandma Alice. The mice put a lot of stock in each new generation of gods and priestesses, but most of us lacked the cachet to successfully overturn Great-Grandpa Jonathan or his daughter on a point of order. Maybe someday, when I was older and had done more things to actually impress the mice.
Probably not.
“Well, just don’t take
all
the cheese, all right? There are other people riding in business class who might want a midnight
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