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and woods, those quiet moments gave him too much time to think, invited painful memories.
    Clanging noises came from the cargo compartment. Parson glanced back. Geedi was removing cargo straps from an aluminum ladder. The flight mechanic needed the ladder to inspect the bad engine.
    â€œLemme help you with that, Geedi,” Parson called.
    â€œThanks, sir.”
    â€œI see you met our flight mechanic,” Chartier said to Gold. “He comes from the Somali American community in Minneapolis.”
    â€œHe’s a good dude,” Parson said. “Knows his shit. But I better give him a hand with that ladder before it falls on his skinny ass.”
    Parson went aft and helped Geedi lift the ladder that had been strapped to the floor. They slid it halfway out the boarding door, and Parson jumped down from the aircraft. He took the ladder by its base, and he and Geedi moved it out of the DC-3 and set it up under the right engine.
    Black droplets of leaking oil already spattered the dusty pavement beneath the engine, but that was normal. Geedi climbed the ladder. He wore a Leatherman multi-tool in a sheath attached to the waist strap of his flight suit. The flight mechanic took out the Leatherman, opened a screwdriver blade, and began turning the Dzus fasteners that pinned the cowling panels in place. He worked with a practiced hand, popping open each fastener with a quick leftward flick of his wrist.
    Gold and Chartier emerged from the airplane and headed toward the terminal.
    â€œI’ll get some people to unload your cargo,” Gold called.
    â€œThanks, Sophia,” Parson answered. “Just make sure they don’t take our oil and stuff.” In addition to the relief supplies, the DC-3’s cargo compartment also contained cartons of oil and hydraulic fluid, a spare tire, jacks, spark plugs, and other items Geedi used to maintain the old airplane.
    â€œWill do,” Gold said.
    Parson waited underneath the wing to see what Geedi might find. He unzipped a chest pocket on his flight suit, took out his aviator sunglasses, and put them on. While Geedi examined the engine, Parson folded his arms and admired the DC-3’s lines.
    The old girl had style, no doubt about that. The sweep of the wings’ leading edges, the rounded nose, the twist of the three-bladed props hinted of 1930s art deco. Built originally as a twin-engine airliner, by modern standards she was small for a passenger plane: She’d have carried twenty-one people. The plush seats had been removed long ago to make way for cargo. A decal on one of the blades read HAMILTON STANDARD PROPELLERS . Reliable enough to survive decades of constant flying, she was a tough plane designed to handle tough conditions and do it with class.
    Geedi removed a panel and handed it down to Parson. Parson placed the sheet of aluminum on the tarmac beside the ladder. The flight mechanic dug into one of his leg pockets and produced a mini-flashlight. He shone the light into the engine and looked around.
    â€œSee anything?” Parson asked.
    â€œNot really. No obvious damage, anyway.”
    â€œHmm,” Parson said. Though he’d experienced most of the problems that caused turboprop and turbojet engines to fail, he had logged little flight time on radial piston engines. Didn’t know where to start speculating about the source of the problem. That’s why he flew with a flight mechanic.
    â€œSir,” Geedi said, “you don’t have to stay out here. This might take a while. You can go inside if you want.”
    â€œThanks, Geedi,” Parson said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Inside, Parson found more activity than he’d expected. About forty people milled about in a room the size of a basketball court. No ticket counters or baggage carousels, just wooden benches along the walls. At an unpainted rough-hewn table, a woman stirred a pot that rested on a grate above a