"Good assistant."
"The best."
In the back seat, Maya finally leaned her head against the leather and closed her eyes.
She did not sleep.
She listened to Naomi on speakerphone, rapid and controlled, walking through what had happened since the plane landed.
"The first clip is past five million views. The second, the one with the peanuts and 'you people,' is climbing faster. Three national outlets have requested comment. Crestline's public account posted that they are aware of a customer service concern, and people are tearing them apart for using that phrase."
Maya opened her eyes.
"Customer service concern."
"I know."
"Save that post."
"Already archived. Their legal department has called Williams Meridian twice asking whether tomorrow's signing is still confirmed."
"What did you say?"
"That you were unavailable for comment."
Lena sat beside Maya, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"They still don't know."
Naomi heard her through the phone.
"Is that Miss Ortiz?"
"Yes," Maya said. "She's with me."
Naomi's voice softened.
"Thank you for helping her."
Lena looked out the window at the passing lights of Queens.
"They shouldn't have made it necessary."
The SUV crossed into Manhattan under a dark sky.
The city was not asleep.
It never really was.
Delivery bikes moved through wet streets.
Steam rose from grates.
A couple argued outside a closed diner.
A doorman in a long coat held an umbrella for a woman stepping from a cab.
Ordinary life kept moving, indifferent to one woman's humiliation and one corporation's panic.
Crestline's crisis office occupied the 36th floor of a glass tower near Bryant Park.
By the time Maya arrived, the lobby security guard already knew her name.
That told her Douglas Whitman had begun preparing the stage.
Denise met them inside and escorted them upstairs.
The conference room was too bright, too cold, and too clean.
A long walnut table sat in the center.
Screens lined one wall, filled with remote faces.
Board members.
Legal counsel.
Communications officers.
Investor relations.
Human resources.
Some wore suits.
Some wore sweaters hastily pulled over shirts.
All of them had the same look people wore when a disaster had interrupted their certainty.
Douglas Whitman stood at the far end of the table.
He was in his early 60s, silver-haired, narrow-faced, and dressed in a navy suit without a tie.
He had the controlled urgency of a man who believed every problem had a number attached to it.
Beside him sat a woman from legal, two communications executives, and a man from investor relations who kept refreshing something on his laptop.
Douglas stepped forward with both hands open.
"Miss Williams," he said. "Thank you for coming in at this hour. I'm Douglas Whitman, interim chairman of Crestline Airways. First, let me say that we deeply regret your unpleasant experience tonight."
Maya did not sit.
"Unpleasant experience?"
Douglas paused just long enough to realize she had caught the phrase.
"A very serious service failure," he corrected.
Lena gave a short, humorless breath.
Douglas glanced at her.
"And you are?"
"Lena Ortiz. Emergency nurse. Seat 3A. I recorded what your crew did after ignoring a medical warning."
The legal officer leaned forward.
"Miss Ortiz, we appreciate your concern, but this meeting is intended to resolve Miss Williams's passenger claim."
Maya looked at her.
"Miss Ortiz stays."