Under the blazing midday sun of Los Angeles, the captain slams the grounding order into Ivy’s face beside the Boeing, the paper cutting her eyelid. “You think you deserve to touch the controls?” he sneers, arm around his new lover, grinding his boot down on Ivy’s hand as she tries to pick up the papers, then rips the gold epaulettes from her chest. “Go scrub toilets and keep your filth out of the cockpit.”
