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like yer day improved. No more crap.”
    “Not today,” Trip admitted. “Goodnight, thanks for your help.”
    “No problem. You did check on that jump plane sticky door, right?”
    Sheepishly, Trip deflected, “First thing, I promise.”
    “Tomorrow. No excuses. Win Buzz over. Pilots are organized. Make a list.” Deb grabbed his hand and held up a few bandaged fingers. “Do you think someone with this many accidents exudes confidence? Why would anyone turn over a seventy-five thousand dollar Piper to Mr. Band-Aid for a solo flight?”
    Trip lowered his eyes as Deb dropped his hand. He tried to say something, but shrugged his shoulders in defeat.
    Deb untied her apron, laid it on the lunch counter. As she opened the door to exit to the parking lot, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder with one last word of encouragement, “Fresh start tomorrow. See you in the morning.”
    Trip brightened a little at this glimmer of hope, “Goodnight.” Now alone, Trip wandered around the cafe, surveying the pictures of skydivers, crop-dusting posters, and paused at the ‘You Can Learn to Fly’ poster. Nodding agreement, he reached out and touched the letters. “Yep, someday that will be me.”
    One last check that the doors were locked, he turned out the cafe lights and entered the hangar. On his way to his bunkroom, a short detour to the parachute packing table provided another daydream diversion. Confirming that he was alone, he grabbed a packed parachute from the rack on the hangar wall. He swiftly put the chute on his back, fastened the straps. No glitches or stumbles here. He had done this so many times, he could do it blindfolded. He backed up and scooted onto the packing table.
    Trip stood up, inched to the edge of the table and peered at the ground, only three-feet below. He eyed Socrates looking up at him. The three feet was enough to trigger Trip’s fear of heights. He shuddered; backed a step away from the edge. He closed his eyes. Extended his arms into ‘airplane wing’ position.
    He was now standing on a parachute packing table in an airplane hangar. His harness was securely fastened as he stretched his wings to their fullest. Eyes closed, Trip jumped at twenty thousand feet into a four-minute free fall. The wind rushed past his extended arms and
    legs. He imagined that he could accelerate his fall by diving, head first toward the ground. Previous pretend death plunges had taught him not to pull the rip cord in this head-first position.
    He continued his vertical, high-speed descent until he caught his dive partner who had jumped five seconds earlier. Trip leveled off and reached to touch his dive buddy. It was Socrates. Socrates showed up in many of Trip’s daydreams. They both pulled their rip cords. A mild jerk flipped his feet below the billowing nylon chute. Patchwork-quilted farmland circled beneath them in alternating squares of green, gold, and brown.
    Four feet, two were webbed, securely nestled in wheat field stubble, the skydivers gathered in the cords and fabric. When the daydream ended, Trip removed his harness and noted that the parachute had popped out the back. A great daydream was one that blended the imagined with reality. This reality meant that he had to re-pack the chute or Buzz would be livid. Trip could lead a class on this task. While clumsy in many things, he knew his way around a parachute.
    Trip returned the parachute to the rack, looked back through the hangar, and with a sigh, turned out the lights. The daydreams might be cool, but Trip always returned to his boring, unfulfilled bunkroom life. He was not a pilot. He’d never skydived, he’d never even been up in an airplane. Maybe he’s the loser that people think he is.
    Trip flipped on his bunkroom lights. He touched his Navy Blue Angel poster, and sighed, “Someday.” With Socrates comfortable in his corner bed, Trip wandered around his tiny room, touching jet planes hanging from the ceiling. He hung up his work shirt on a