## Just Ten Minutes

Mara had chosen seat 18A three weeks before the flight.

It cost an extra thirty-four dollars. She’d paid it anyway. After a week of late shifts and a rushed trip to visit her sister, she wanted the one part of the journey she could control: a window, the evening sky, and a little time to herself.

By the time she reached row eighteen, someone was in her seat.

A boy of about eight had both hands against the window. His mother sat beside him in the middle seat, arranging a backpack under her feet.

Mara checked her boarding pass. **18A.**

“Excuse me,” she said. “I think that’s my seat.”

The mother looked up, then at the pass in Mara’s hand. Her expression changed so quickly Mara almost missed it.

“Oh. Would you mind letting him stay there for a little while? He gets cranky on flights. He’ll fall asleep after takeoff, and then we’ll move.”

The boy turned from the window. “Mom?”

“Just ten minutes,” his mother said to Mara. “Please.”

Behind Mara, passengers were still filing down the aisle. A man stopped with his suitcase in one hand, waiting for her to move. Someone farther back sighed.

Mara could have said no. She knew that. She had picked the seat, paid for it, and arrived on time.

But the boy was already settled, and his mother was looking at her as if the question had an obvious answer.

“Okay,” Mara said. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you. You can take my aisle seat.”

The mother shifted into the middle. Mara sat in 18C, with the boy still beside the window. She put her bag under the seat in front of her and watched the last passengers board.

During the safety demonstration, the boy talked about everything he could see: the trucks moving beneath the wing, the workers in bright vests, another plane waiting across the runway. His mother answered some of his questions. Mara looked past them at the strip of orange sky she had hoped to watch during takeoff.

The plane climbed. Buildings became blocks of light. Then they disappeared beneath a layer of clouds.

The boy did not fall asleep.

Mara waited until the seatbelt sign went off. She gave him a few more minutes. He pressed his forehead close to the window and pointed at a distant line of sunlight. His mother handed him a snack.

Mara looked at her watch. Thirty-two minutes had passed since takeoff.

She leaned toward the mother. “Sorry. Could I have my seat back now?”

The mother stopped opening the snack packet.

“He’s getting a little tired,” she whispered. “Give him a moment.”

“You said ten minutes.”

The mother glanced around. Mara lowered her voice further.

“I’d really like to sit in the seat I booked.”

The boy was still looking outside. His mother touched his arm, then looked directly at Mara.

“You’re really going to make a child move now?”

She said it loudly enough for the row behind them to hear.

Mara felt heat rise in her face. Across the aisle, a passenger looked up from his phone. The mother held Mara’s gaze, waiting.

Then the boy turned away from the window.