A Torch For Five Minutes

Three hours of the eleven hours and forty five minutes have passed.

The cabin lights have been dimmed, to encourage snoozing.

Gaius folds up his notes, and unfolds a thin blanket.

Have I got a blanket? asks Terence.

Doubtless, says Gaius. Yes, here it is.

Have I got a torch? asks Terence.

What do you need a torch for? asks Gaius.

To see, under the blanket, says Terence.

Don't put it over your head, says Gaius.

But I'm hatching Mouldy, says Terence.

What! The game has progressed this far?

It's a game, says P. krameri. Mouldy is being an egg.

As long as he's an egg quietly, says Gaius. It's snooze time.

Terence pulls the blanket over his head, and over Mouldy and over P. krameri.

Can I get you anything? asks a flight attendant.

A torch, says Terence.

You can borrow my torch for five minutes, says the flight attendant.

Isn't she lovely.

Now Terence has a torch under the blanket. He shines it on Mouldy to see if he's hatching.

He won't hatch, says P. krameri. He's too proud.

I'm not, mumbles Mouldy. I just don't know how to.

You come out, says P krameri. Even I know that.

Turn OVER, says Terence. Then you won't mumble. And you'll look like a parrot, and the egg will be gone.

It won't be gone, says Mouldy. It'll be under me. And I won't be able to forget it.

I thought you learned acceptance when you lived with the thrombolites, says P. krameri.

Sometimes it helps to be reminded.

Mouldy turns over. His green feathers are all stuck to his face, and his beak is askew, but he does feel more normal.

Five minutes is up, says the flight attendant, returning for her torch, after only four minutes.

But you can't blame her for that.