THE PILOT'S INSTRUCTIONS

9 3 R T H E P I L O T ’ S I N S T R U C T I O N S K A R E N E . B E N D E R We were sitting in the plane, waiting to back out from the gate, while the flight attendants prepared the cabin for takeo√. Perplexing airplane sounds arose from unknown locations – inside the plane, out on the tarmac, in the air. It was afternoon – through the small window the sky appeared blue and clear in a way that was both joyful and aggressive. The pilot made an announcement. ‘‘Good afternoon, everyone. Please turn o√ your phones or put them in airplane mode.’’ I looked up. My fellow passengers were packed in their seats, hunched over their electronic devices as though they were all engaged in a form of prayer. I listened to the pilot; I turned o√ my phone. The cabin door slammed shut. We pretended lack of interest in the person sitting next to us, though of course brimmed with many perhaps untoward thoughts about that person, trying not to touch each other’s elbows or thighs. We all faced the same way. East. We were concerned about not reaching our destination. I didn’t like flying, being strapped into a seat, gripping the plastic armrests as I looked at the world we had been separated from, briefly, far below. I sat by the window; the passenger to my right was texting. She 9 4 B E N D E R Y was long and thin, a piece of stretched gum, and appeared to be in her twenties, with short dark hair and a streak of blue on one side. The precise waviness of her hair made me think of my sister, Janine. This thought passed through me and then vanished. Her leather boots were nicer than my sneakers. She gazed at her phone with a contemplative, tender expression. Her fingers flew. The flight attendant strode by, tossing us tiny, bright packets of pretzels. ‘‘Turn o√ small electronic devices and put your phones on airplane mode,’’ she said, glancing at the passengers. How casual she was! As cheerful as carbonation, she trusted this plane, this world. There was no formal examination of the phones. It was assumed that we understood the danger. I was embarrassed that I did not. And I saw danger everywhere. In fact, I had had a dream the night before that the world was about to end. It was an unoriginal movie end, with galactic disturbance and a star moving too close to earth, but everyone knew that these were the last few days of life. It was unclear what horrible death awaited us, but it could involve fire engulfing our sweet, fragile bodies, and the sky was turning an orange gray, and we didn’t know how much longer we would be able to breathe. I woke up sad and trembling. What horrible truth was the dream trying to tell me, which was sometimes a more frightening idea than the dream itself? What did the dream know that I did not? But nothing came to me. So I just got up and made breakfast, the fried eggs lacy and sizzling, bubbling in a way that reassured me. Most of the passengers followed the flight attendant’s directions with gracious obedience; I saw other phones go dark, little dying people releasing their last breath. The stranger beside me texted with a manic quality that was almost sexual in its focus, until she saw the smiling flight attendant walk by again, at which time she placed her phone facedown on her leg. It was a brilliant and somehow diabolical gesture. When the flight attendant had moved far enough away to miss her illicit activity, she picked it up and resumed texting. Her phone was not o√. It was also not on airplane mode. Oh my god, I thought, she will kill us all. The pilot’s instructions should, I assumed, be followed for a reason. I was a polite person. But I did have some people I loved whom I had scrabbled together, some family members and a few T...