I twisted around. A woman in a blazer was holding her phone up, still filming.
“Lady,” said the grandmother who’d been praying, “sit down.”
“Ma’am,” Kendra said firmly, walking toward row twelve, “I need you to put the phone away until we’re at the gate.”
“I have every right to document an unlicensed person performing a medical procedure on a passenger!”
“And I have every right,” said the grandmother in row fourteen, standing up in the aisle, “to tell you you’re a disgrace.”
A man in a business suit across the aisle started clapping. Slowly at first. Then the teenage girl who’d held up the jacket. Then the man next to her. Within ten seconds, the whole back half of the plane was applauding.
Not for me. For the gray-haired man kneeling beside me in the galley.
Joaquin kept his head down. His ears turned red. I saw his jaw working, like he was trying very hard not to cry again.
