Myron stayed still for a moment. A fresh wave of guilt rolled over him, coloring his cheeks. He nodded, took the phone, dialed. He gripped the phone a bit too tightly. His mother answered.

Myron said, “Mom-”

Mom started bawling. She managed to yell for Dad. Dad picked up the downstairs extension.

“Dad-”

And then he started bawling too. Stereo bawling. Myron held the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“I was in the Caribbean,” he said, “not Beirut.”

An explosion of laughter from both. Then more crying. Myron looked at Win. Win sat impassively. Myron rolled his eyes, but of course he was also pleased. Complain all you want, but who didn't want to be loved like this?

His parents settled into a meaningless chatter-meaningless on purpose, Myron supposed. While they could undoubtedly be pests, Mom and Dad had a wonderful ability to know when to back off. He managed to explain where he'd been. They listened in silence. Then his mother asked, “So where are you calling us from?”

“Win's airplane.”

Stereo gasps now. “What?”

“Win's company has a private jet. I just told you he picked me-”

“And you're calling on his phone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

“Mom…”

But the meaningless chatter died down in a hurry then. When Myron hung up seconds later, he sat back. The guilt came again, bathing hifri in something ice cold. His parents were not young anymore. He hadn't thought about that before he ran. He hadn't thought about a lot of things.

“I shouldn't have done that to them,” Myron said. “Or you.”

Win shifted in his seat-major body language for him. Candi wiggled back into view. She lowered a screen and hit a switch. A Woody Allen film came on. Love and Death. Ambrosia of the mind. They watched without speaking. When it was over, Candi asked Myron if he wanted to take a shower before they landed.