She stood at the aircraft door holding a clipboard like a scepter. Her hair was impeccable. Her uniform was crisp enough to photograph well. Her smile carried the high polish of frequent practice.
“Zariah,” she said, voice dripping synthetic warmth. “Wow. Hey.”
I paused. “Amelia.”
Her eyes dropped to my boarding pass. Her smile constricted momentarily, then reassembled itself.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, already stepping aside with the presumption of authority.
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