Traveling east as Natalie was doing, away from the sun and into the future, caused the loss of time. Hours disappeared with each mile in the figurative rearview mirror and with each kilometer through the windshield. Different units of measurement couldn't explain the phenomenon. The time in Boston and Munich was never the same. Hours were forever lost, fading into obscurity like the faint cloud of exhaust left in the plane's wake.

Caught within the confines of her first-class cabin, in seat 2A, time accelerated. Nat's body may only have aged six hours, yet the clock ticked faster, progressing twelve hours. As she left Boston behind, reality, too, slipped away.

Natalie watched what happened around her, touched, tasted, and even smelled it. She was never alone. She had help, ever-present, omnipresent assistance. With each tick of that clock, Dexter became more attentive as her comprehension lessened. His hand covered hers reassuringly. He helped her order her meals, even ordering wine.

Natalie wasn't old enough to drink, not legally, in the United States. That didn't mean she never had. She'd had the occasional glass of wine at family dinners and parties. She'd attended parties at school. Yes, even Harvard had those kinds of parties.

Even so, she'd never over-imbibed. She'd seen friends stumble and slur their words. She'd helped some back to their apartment and put them to bed. She'd even assisted with the obligatory ponytail hold. Yet she'd never been the one who lost time, never been the one to wake and ask what she'd done. After all, while her parents were complacent about certain things, other things were unforgivable.

An unforgivable sin was impairing appearance. There were always people watching. A person was never completely alone. That was true of fellow students with phones that could instantly transmit a picture over social networks reaching hundreds, thousands, or more people. That was also true of fake-news organizations that would jump on the story depicting the youngest daughter of a renowned businessman behaving poorly in public. It was even true in her own home. The cameras were for security, but surveillance never stopped.

It always was. Natalie's mother accepted it. Her siblings had done their part to fight it, but it continued. Like the rising and setting of the sun, it was beyond her reach.

Why fight what you cannot change?

That was something her mother told her more than once, something Natalie had taken to heart. It was what it was—learn to accept it. Perhaps it's the reason she accepted her failure at Harvard. Could she have changed it?

As they approached Munich, nearly seven hours after leaving Boston, Natalie couldn't answer that question. It wasn't the only question she was incapable of answering. Simple equations, her favorite color, the name of her first pet...

Essentially everything was slightly beyond her comprehension and thoroughly beyond her articulation. All of the information was just out of reach...as if she were watching instead of participating.

After helping her back to their seats from the bathroom, Dexter reached for her boots from under the seat ahead of them. “Nat, it's time to get ready to disembark.”

The boots sitting in her lap were hers; she recognized them. Why were they in her lap?

“I-I...”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “Dear, don't tell me that little bit of wine still has you this confused even after your rest?”

Dear? Rest?

Her eyes narrowed. “I-I don't know you.” The words were thick and her tongue sticky. She took a better look. “Do I?”

“Sir, is everything all right?”

It was the woman in blue. Maybe she could help Natalie understand. Yet before Natalie could speak, Dexter spoke. Nat couldn't make out their words though their lips were moving. The woman smiled and nodded. Nat turned to Dexter; he was doing the same.

The woman leaned down to Natalie. “Congratulations. You're a lucky woman. I'd be celebrating too.”

Natalie's head shook, but words didn't form. Not at the necessary rate for conversation. One person spoke and then the other. Long pauses made for uncomfortable silence.

Finally, when Dexter squeezed her hand, Natalie thought to smile—wordless communication. It worked. The woman left.

Wait, was that what she wanted?

“Let me help you,” Dexter said, lifting her legs over the center armrest until both of her bootie-covered feet were in his lap. Tenderly, he removed each paper covering, the ones provided by the airlines, and slipped each foot into her black boots. Once they were zipped, he gently placed her feet back upon the floor.

“Thank you,” she managed, “...but why?”

“Let me get your bag in case you want to freshen up.”

She remembered his blue-green eyes, long legs, and smile. She liked it when the smile reached his eyes. Why did that matter?

Dexter opened her messenger bag, the one she always used for traveling, and rummaged inside. She wanted to stop him, to remind him about privacy, yet the connection was still missing. The words were in her head, but they wouldn't move to her tongue.

Suddenly, a passport was in her hands, opened to the page with her picture.

He leaned close and spoke, his volume low with a tone that bid her attention. “I know you aren't feeling like yourself. That's all right. Look at this.” He tapped the information within the small folder. When she looked down, he went on, “We don't have much time. Listen closely and do as I say. Customs should be easy, but they might ask you a question or two. I'll explain that the combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation has you confused, but it's important to know your name.”

She blinked, making the words come into focus. “My-my name is Natalie—”

“Your name is Nellie Smithers.”

She shook her head again. “No, Natalie—”

“Nellie Smithers.” His timbre slowed. “Say it.”

“Why?”

He didn't answer, only repeating the name she didn't know, each time slower than the last. She tried to block him out, looking closer at the passport in her hand. It was her picture, but it wasn't her passport picture. This picture couldn't be more than a month or two old. Where did it come from? The picture in her passport was taken four years ago, when her childhood passport had expired. In the picture in her hand, she's her current age with long brown hair and big green eyes.

Though their personalities couldn’t be more different, Natalie was the spitting image of her older sister, Nichol, if her sister had green eyes. Instead, her sister had inherited their father's brown ones. Nat always thought they made Nichol appear stronger, a more formidable force like their father. That wasn't what her dad said. When he looked at Nat, he'd say that she—his baby—was the perfect combination of light and dark.

Her mom and her dad.

“No...I have a flight to...” She tried to remember where she was going. It was somewhere cold. Her parents were already there. And Nate, her brother. No doubt, Nichol was coming too. “...to...I'm going to...” Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy.

Hadn't she slept? She thought she remembered sleeping.

“Nellie—”

“No, Natalie!” She spoke too loud, too drawn out. People would stare.

Dexter smiled. “That's right, dear. I'll take care of it all.”

He'd take care of what? Why was he happy? She'd said Natalie. Quietly, she said the name again, more of a whisper to herself rather than to him. “Nat-lie.”

It didn't sound right. She licked her lips. The T was soft, though consonants are rarely soft. It wasn't coming out as two syllables.

“Naalie...”

No, that wasn't right.

It was then she noticed her left hand, the rings.

Dexter must have seen her lift her hand because he helped her, raising it higher until the combination of diamonds and gold was right in front of her. “I'm so happy that you like it.”

It's a strange sensation when an aircraft begins to slow. Tons of metal, hundreds of people, the weight exceeding anyone's imagination, suddenly decelerating its forward thrust, hanging precariously in the air as if at that moment the aircraft could drop to the earth. It's a frightening sensation—the passengers unable to change the deadly trajectory.

That was the sensation Natalie experienced, a free-fall from a mile high, her stomach in knots. Perspiration dotted her skin, her palms moistened, and the breakfast she couldn't recall eating pushed upward. “I-I’m going...sick...”

Dexter's lips quirked upward; even his eyes lightened. “No, dear, you won't. I made sure of that. The anti-nausea component of your little cocktail won't allow it.”

“C-cocktail?”

“Why yes, we're about to land in Munich. You're old enough to drink there. In Germany, it's sixteen for beer and wine. It's eighteen for spirits. The laws are the same at our final destination. Though I must say, as your husband, I'll need to keep a close eye on your intake. It does seem as though you have a rather low tolerance.”

There was too much in his speech, so much to decipher.

“Destination?” Her chest clenched. “M-my mom...France.”

“Yes, it's interesting that she's who you mention. Of course, one day we'll visit. Keeping us from your family isn't my goal. I doubt our visit will be in France. You won't be ready. Besides, they're only renting that chateau. I'd love to visit their island. I'm sure it's beautiful. But first, don't you think we should get to know one another better?” His hand splayed over her thigh, the heat transcending the material of her tight jeans. “My dear wife.”