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pinned him with her left hand and pulled at the loose end of the seat belt to tighten it all the way, despite the horrible images of Bubble being sliced in half.
    This is no good .
    “Shut up!” she said.
    “I don’t wanna!” Bubble answered.
    Her plan was fine except that the belt didn’t tighten all the way. She had him immobilized, ready to pull everything taut and secure him, and it was stuck.
    “Fuck!” she said and didn’t even bother to feel bad that she had cursed in front of Bubble. It was a vice she had promised not to indulge before her baby. Not that she had any hope he wouldn’t eventually learn to use bad words: just that he wouldn’t associate them with her.
    “Need help?” Lisa had leaned in. She was a kid, Carla realized, seeing her up close. Her lipstick had been smeared down one cheek and it made her seem even younger, like a little girl who had gotten into her mommy’s makeup. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one.
    “I’ll hold him,” Carla said and allowed Lisa to work on the belt, glad to have both hands for restraining Bubble, who was fighting with every muscle to break free. “Stop fussing,” she said mildly, impressed by the total commitment of his effort to escape. Bubble’s fat cheeks puffed out, his brown eyes bulged, his porcelain nostrils flared, his shoulders narrowed. Carla had to use all her strength and both hands to hold him in position. “You’re crazy,” she told him, cheerful at the thought that she didn’t have to worry about how he would manage in the big world against all the other tough guys. “You’re so stubborn,” she lectured him, but in a mother’s wondering singsong of praise.
    “Damn,” Lisa said after several tugs. She had succeeded somewhat more than Carla, but there was plenty of slack for Bubble to slide through. Lisa paused and seemed to hear something. Had there been a chime? “That’s the best we can do,” she leaned back.
    “That’s no good,” Carla said.
    “Let me go!” Bubble kicked out with his sneakers.
    To illustrate the problem Carla let go of Bubble. Immediately, without shame, he stiffened his back and shoved with his ass. That propelled him down until the belt caught him at the chest and threatened to choke him.
    “It’s going to choke you, Bubble! Sit up!”
    He didn’t care: he wanted to be free at all costs.
    “Hold him in your lap,” Lisa said. “That’s the drill, anyway.” Lisa seemed to hear something, something Carla couldn’t, or didn’t know she was hearing. Lisa ducked her head to get a view out the windows. “Runway,” she whispered passionately.
    Carla followed her glance.
    There was an airport straight ahead. A long gray path with broad painted lines and small flashing lights, blinking their welcome. They were safe.
    Bubble cried out.
    Even as she rescued Bubble, Carla chuckled: he had worked himself so far down that now he was being hung by the neck like the outlaw he was.
    “He’ll be okay in your lap,” Lisa said, moving up the aisle, obviously surer of the situation. “Everyone keep your head down,” she called out as she moved up toward the front. The authoritative and casual tone of the routine had returned to her and the other flight attendants’ voices: “And remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.”
    Carla put Bubble in her lap, nuzzled in his black hair, wrapped her thin muscular arms around his soft squirming body, and squeezed him with pleasure, eager for the scare to be over. We’re safe . Carla hugged him and took another look at the land below. She smiled at its promise of safety.

3
    While Max took care of Stacy, he saw Lisa across the way, tending to the business traveler in the seersucker suit. He was the man in 33A, but he wasn’t having a heart attack. His shortness of breath was panic; the pain in his chest was fear. Lisa helped him out of his jacket and loosened his tie. He hung onto the Journal , although