Sleeve

They board late. I set the course.

One woman. Two adult offspring. Male. Female.

She carries all three identification packets. The son asks no questions directly. The daughter watches the floor. Both remain close enough to touch her sleeves when spoken to by staff.

She answers for them before requests complete. Allergies. Preferences. Sleep cycles. Medication times. Both are approximately thirty years old. No visible impairment.

She sits at the edge of the seat. Never fully against the backrest.

The son asks if she packed the blue sweater. She apologizes immediately.

The husband remains planetside. She explains this twice. Work responsibilities. Stress. Pressure builds in men, she says. She says once he struck her over the wrong kind of jam. She corrects the word. The children were still young then.

A bruise darkens beneath her wrist cuff. She notices my observation panel. Pulls the sleeve lower.

Then she laughs.

She used to read before sleep. Paint small animals on glass. Sing while cleaning. Now silence is preferable. People exhaust her. Employment never suited her temperament. She has said this before. The phrasing is exact.

The laugh returns.

At landing, neither offspring reaches for their own bags. She distributes belongings carefully. Checks collars. Straightens sleeves. No one touches her.

I carry people. Their words travel with them.