Flying. I sat in the passenger seat and watched my son handle the controls of the tiny Cessna like he was a pro.

I suppose he was, though he had only played with a flight simulator on his computer.

But in a world where we had to escape using a plane, he became a pilot by default.

It's not like I could do much, other than hold the yoke, and probably spiral us down to our death into the pine forests below.

They stretched out to the East as we pointed the nose of the plane toward Alabama and my friends at Fort Jasper.

I planned a quick stop there, and sending Byron and his boys out to find more jet fuel so we could keep hopping in the plane toward the East Coast and the refugee camps where my youngest was supposed to be.