Chapter Thirty-Three

Nomad

Nomad was one of the very last ones on the plane. Good thing he didn't have a carry-on. There would be no space for it. He had learned a long time ago that he needed every inch of space around him, and he couldn't share it with a bag shoved under the seat in front of him. Not if he wanted someplace to put his size fifteen feet.

When he saw the seat row and number, he knew it would be a tight fit for him.

But he had no idea he would be jealous of a sardine packed in its tin.

Nomad ducked his head and sidestepped his way to the back.

The very back.

The two people already in his row had to stand up and squish themselves to the side to let him in. He could see they were calculating and didn't know how this would work.

Nomad didn't either.

But the plane was packed. There were no other options. He'd hoped perhaps the person on the aisle would take pity and switch seats with him or even let him pay. But the woman's right leg was broken. She had to stick it out in the aisle.

This was fine. He'd been in worse circumstances.

When Nomad had wedged himself into the seat and had his belt in place, the other two gave him a minute to figure out his legs. This seat had his shoulder to the side of the plane. Where a window should be was an indentation in the plastic. Honestly, that seemed like a taunt rather than a design choice. With the lavatory wall directly behind him, his seat didn't lean back.

He'd be upright for the duration.

With his toes on the floor to allow a tighter bend in his knees. He got his shins up along the back of the seat in front of him. There was no way he'd be able to lower his tray.

Once Nomad had settled, his row mates found their seats again, and they all pressed together. Being this intimate with a stranger was socially awkward, and Nomad understood why the women coped by flirting with him. Nomad wanted to be polite but also to shut it down.

It went on through the flight instructions and the takeoff.

It went on through the "You're free to move about the cabin" announcement.

Nomad wanted to think about Red. Wanted to relive their parting kiss. Wanted to get some sleep if possible. But, most certainly, he didn't want to flirt with these women all the way from Amsterdam to Casablanca. So he pulled out his old standby. "Ladies, I'm sorry. I'm narcoleptic and need to close my eyes. Please don't take offense."

The funny thing was that neither seemed to know the word.

Nomad lolled his head against the wall and pretended to sleep.

"What was that?" One whisper asked the other. "Did he say narcoleptic?"

"He did."

"Isn't that when you want to have sex with dead bodies?" Middle seat whispered

"Now that you say that, I think it is."

From under his lashes, Nomad could see both of them peering at him.

"How do you think he comes across the bodies to do that with?"

"He's strong. Maybe he digs them up?"

"Wouldn't that be too tiring?"

"Do you think that's why he fell asleep so quick just now?"

Nomad felt them lean and peer again.

"Hard to tell. But look, he has manicured fingernails. There's no dirt under them."

"Isn't that what the bad guy would do after hitting someone with their car? They go to the car wash to clean off all the evidence?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Do you think he hits them with a car? The dead bodies he sleeps with? You know, like makes his own?"

Nomad was having trouble keeping his face slack. He'd remember this conversation to share with his Echo brothers. This was nuts.

"Then he'd be a serial killer, wouldn't he?"

"He would, and he didn't say that. He said he had narcolepsy."

After watching him fold into his spot, the woman in front had been kind enough to leave her chair upright. But she leaned it back and looked at his row mates through the crack. "That word you're using is necrophilia. Necrophilia has to do with dead bodies. The word he said was narcolepsy . Narcolepsy is a sleeping disorder that makes someone sleepy during the day. And they can go to sleep at any time. He was probably kidding. He was trying to tell you he was tired and going to sleep."

"Oh, he was tired," the middle seat said. "He was just tired. That's different than what I was thinking."

The woman in front pulled her head out of the crack and turned around, putting the chair back upright.

Nomad worked to keep his chuckle internal.

"Yeah." The aisle seat said, "I wonder if there's a step down from—what did she say? Necrophilia?—like not wanting to get with someone who's dead, but maybe just sleeping."

"I honestly wouldn't mind with a guy that looks like him."

"He is pretty while he sleeps."

"Ladies," the flight attendant held out napkins, "what can I get you to drink?"