There are stories that begin on airplanes. A one-way flight to nowhere, or a round-trip back home. A metal vessel in the skies, floating and drifting and soaring. Think of the 12 km column of air and space that separates the thin carpet beneath your feet and the expanse of the Atlantic eager to catch you if you fall. The glimpse of icebergs and glaciers above the poles, endless blankets of white with jagged sawtooth edges. The way you feel claustrophobic in your seat, pressed up against strangers and food carts. Space that’s not yours, only borrowed. Shallower breathing that made your heart work faster and harder. Maybe you unbuckle your seatbelt and stand to stretch, eager for a breath of clean oxygen that has not been recycled twice over. Think of who you meet on that late night, early morning (time knows no bounds here) excursion for an extra bag of pretzels, hands outstretched for more. The way you reached to close that space, high up in the atmosphere.