When I boarded my flight to Portland, I stood up from my wheelchair to take my seat. As I did, I noticed a pilot standing nearby, completely still, watching me. A flight attendant had kindly offered to carry my bag, and both she and the pilot followed us down the aisle. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I slumped back into my seat, unsure why I was being watched so closely.
A moment later, the pilot spoke.
“Were you in the army?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
He paused, studying my face, then asked quietly, “Afghanistan, 2010?”
I was stunned. After a long second, I answered, “Yes…”
That’s when he told me he remembered me — my face, my injuries, my wounds. He said he had often wondered whether I had survived. His name is Marc Vincequere, and today he flies for United Airlines. Years ago, he was there in Afghanistan. He was the one who helped get me out.
In that moment, thousands of miles and years collapsed into a single breath. Two lives crossed again by pure chance, high above the ground. The world suddenly felt impossibly small, and unbelievably wild.
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