![]() ![]() My arms, piled high in retro friendship bracelets– red, purple, gray, black and blue– were plastered against my rib cage. It was my own fault for thinking I could transfer that money unnoticed. Nothing assured me that I’d made the right choice, but here I was, being hauled off to what was probably some kind of reform school, so I had to go with it. The only familiar thing from the other, old-fashioned flight I’d taken before was how all the passengers were trying to meditate away their concern. Dark gray automated belts strapped us into black rubber seats. There were no dings to say “buckle-up,” no overhead fans or lights. Like the sound you hear when you press your ear to a conch shell, only amplified. The low, monk-ish hum of the BoomJet wasn’t like an engine’s forceful whirr. I’d only flown on a regular jet once in my sixteen years, but one time was all it took to know this was far different. ![]() I crinkled my nose at the motorized odor of BoomJet fumes, and blinked continuously to try and moisten my eyeballs. The skin on my cheeks pressed tight against the bone. M Y BOTTOM LIP split straight down the middle from a combination of breathtaking G-force and peppery dry air. The adventure begins, for Doro Campbell and for all of us… By: Rayya Deeb ((Photograph for header image was taken by Mark Gamsey.)) ![]()
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