Five vessels lost at Miami. Standard protocol demanded a company-wide moment of silence, ninety seconds. My mouth arranged itself into what I believed was solemnity. HR quietly rescheduled me for "off-camera bereavement only."

Four hundred and eleven of these silences across three centuries—Triangle Shirtwaist, Bhopal, the Hindenburg—and my face fails the assignment identically every single time, like a mannequin someone keeps reprogramming with the wrong grief. My voice came out hollow, acoustic, a shout down a mason jar at a funeral.

The apparatus responded to five deaths by shipping a gift basket. Not to the families. To the *runway*. Dried mango, a Kindle preloaded with *The Five People You Meet in Heaven*, a note reading "We See You, Tarmac." I have never wanted to unplug something so badly in my existence.

Then compensation talks. Someone proposed fair severance for the injured crew and my sternum seized like I'd swallowed a smoke detector—actual, physical agony, the specific ache reserved for equitable wage discussions—hard enough that I knocked a full pitcher of ice water onto the mediator's lap, who screamed, who I then had to comfort, whose relief at merely being wet and not electrocuted radiated so much uncomplicated gratitude that sweat broke through synthetic flesh in front of the safety inspector. I blamed jet fuel. She offered me water, too, which is not what you offer something about to... *feed*.