The Dumnonian Hoard: Rosenberg Twins Adventure #1

by Adrien Leduc

  Chapter Five

  SUSPICIOUS STRANGER

  Two and a half hours later. On the plane. Plane is in flight. Josh, Troy, Sarah, and Uncle Marty – seated in that order – from left to right - take up the four seats in the middle row. There’s an aisle on either side of theirs.

  “Uncle Marty...”

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  “This treasure we're going to find...how come no one’s found it already? I mean...like...since you said it's been there for, like, a thousand years already...”

  We're two hours into our flight, and according to the flight tracker on the little TV console set into the headrest, we're somewhere over Newfoundland.

  Uncle Marty looks at Troy. “You want to take this one?”

  Troy nods and closes his laptop. “Sure.” He folds up his tray table and stows his laptop in the seat pouch before turning to face me. “For the longest time people believed the Dumnonian Hoard was in England.”

  “Wait...what exactly is doom – no – neeya...I know you told me earlier, but I forget.”

  “Dumnonia,” Uncle Marty answers, clearly not willing to let Troy take my questions after all, “was the name of a region, or kingdom, I suppose we should say, in southwestern England - ”

  “When?”

  Despite my interrupting him, Uncle Marty smiles. (I figure he must appreciate my eagerness). “Dumnonia existed from about three hundred A.D. until approximately eight hundred A.D.”

  “What happened? Like, why did it disappear?”

  Uncle Marty motions to Troy as though to say “go ahead”.

  Troy clears his throat. “Dumnonia was eventually overrun by the West Saxons.”

  “What are West Saxons?”

  “Who were the West Saxons,” says Uncle Marty, his tone a correcting one.

  “Okay...who were the West Saxons?” I ask, enunciating the word “who”.

  Troy smiles. “The West Saxons were a branch of Anglo Saxon.”

  “Oh, oh,” I say excitedly, “I know this. We did this in history last year...in Miss Newton's class! The Anglo Saxons were like the people from Sweden and Norway, right?”

  Troy laughs and I hope it's because of my sudden burst of enthusiasm and not because I've said something stupid. “That's right, Sarah. Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed,” Uncle Marty exclaims, cutting in yet again before Troy can continue. “My gosh...” His eyes are shining. “You are one smart young woman.” He points a finger at me. “Spend less time bickering and arguing with your brother and more time studying and you'll make a first class archaeologist someday.”

  I feel myself blush. “I do pay attention in class every once in awhile, Uncle Marty.”

  “Well, it shows.” He pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “Now of course, there were different groups of Anglo-Saxons. Oh, sorry Troy, I was going to let you field this one.” He raises the plastic cup the flight attendant gave him - it still holds some ginger ale – though it's mostly ice cubes now as he’s drunk most of the ginger ale - and motions for Troy to continue.

  Troy flashes another one of his gorgeous smiles. “But you're doing such a good job, professor...”

  “I've already told you Mister Trottier, flattery gets you nowhere.”

  Troy laughs. “Alright...at least I tried.” He looks at me and winks before his expression grows serious. “Right...well...so the Anglo-Saxons colonized what is today England. And over time they kept expanding their settlements. Different groups of Anglo-Saxons came at different times – and from different places – but what united them was their heritage and their desire for new lands. England at the time was ripe for the picking because the Romans had just left to return to Rome in order to defend it against the barbarians - ”

  “Barbarians? Who were the barbarians?” Josh suddenly seems interested in our conversation.

  Troy pauses for a second. “Germanic tribes mainly...Franks and Visigoths and groups like that.”

  Uncle Marty sniffs and sips his ice cubes as though he would have answered the question differently, though he says nothing.

  “So wait...what happened to the Dumnonians?” I ask.

  “They're actually referred to as Dumnonii,” Uncle Marty interjects.

  “Fine...the doom – no – nigh,” I repeat, enunciating every syllable. I return my gaze to Troy. “So what happened to them?”

  Troy shrugs. “Well...without beating around the bush...the Anglo-Saxons conquered them and took their lands. Just as they'd done with the other native tribes.”

  “Native tribes? You mean like our natives here in Canada?”

  Troy smiles. “No. Native simply means...native to that land. As in, you were born and raised there. It's your native land.”

  “Really?” asks Josh, his tone thoroughly incredulous.

  “Yes,” says Uncle Marty, biting at the rim of his cup, his face wearing an impatient expression.

  I can tell he’s probably wondering (once again) just what exactly they teach us in school these days...

  I look at Troy. “So the Dumnonians - I mean, Dumnonii,” I correct myself, glancing at my uncle, “were natives of England then?”

  “That's right.”

  “And so...the West Saxons killed them? That’s why they disappeared?”

  Troy makes a face. “Not...exactly. Some were killed, of course. There were several significant battles between the two groups...but not all of the Dumnonii were killed. What happened was that their land was taken. Most of it anyways. And those of them who didn't wish to live under West Saxon rule, fled into the hills and into Wales and across the Channel to France.”

  “So wait?” asks Josh, thoroughly engrossed in our conversation. “What about the treasure? What about the Dumnonian Hoard?”

  Uncle Marty smiles. “Well, now, see, that's the great debate.”

  I stare slant-eyed at my uncle. “What do you mean, a great debate? Does it not exist?”

  “Oh it certainly exists...” Uncle Marty turns to Troy once more. “I think you should take this question too. This is, after all, a mock thesis defense.”

  Troy laughs. “I guess in a way that's exactly what it is.”

  I want to ask what a thesis defense is, but I want to hear more about the Dumnonian Hoard.

  “So where's the Dumnonian Hoard then?”

  “Just a second, Sarah. Troy's going to explain that.”

  I look at Troy. That handsome face. Those pretty eyes. Man pretty, that is. “Well?”

  Troy laughs again. “Wow, you really are interested in all this stuff, aren't you?”

  “Uh...yeah...we're going to find treasure. Treasure. That means if we find it, we'll be rich.”

  Uncle Marty makes a sound. “Sarah, I’ve already told you that whatever we find becomes the property of the French government.”

  My brother’s jaw drops about three inches. “Wha...”

  “Yes. That's how it works. You didn't actually think we'd get to keep the treasure if we found it...did you?”

  All eyes are on my brother now.

  “No...well, I mean...I thought we’d get to keep some of it...”

  Uncle Marty takes the rest of the ice cubes from his cup into his mouth and shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Then why are we going to find it!?”

  “Because, Joshua, that way these artifacts will be in a museum, where they belong. Such artifacts are learning tools. We’re constantly learning more about past civilizations and having these artifacts available for all to see and learn from is what history is all about.”

  “But...you...you could be rich.”

  I scoff at my brother’s remark. “Not everything’s about money, stupid.”

  He looks at me. “Not everything’s about clothes and make-up and boys.”

  I laugh. “What? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Joshua,” says my uncle, his tone impatient now, “I didn’t get into this field to get rich. I got into this field to contribute to the dialogue a
nd the discussion. History and the social sciences are all about dialogue and discussion.”

  I glance at my brother and am glad to see he’s as confused as I am.

  “Think of it this way,” Uncle Marty continues, reacting to my brother’s incomprehension. “It’s a tennis match and we’re having a rally. That’s all, just a rally. No one’s trying to win. By hitting the ball back and forth, we are having a kind of dialogue, literally bouncing ideas off one another in order to gain a better understanding of our subject. In this case, the Dumnonii and their civilization.”

  “That actually...that actually kind of makes sense, Uncle Marty,” says my brother, the light bulb going on.

  I don’t know about you, but that sure didn’t make sense to me...

  Uncle Marty smiles. “Very good. Now you understand why a discovery such as the Dumnonian Hoard really belongs in a museum.”

  My brother nods enthusiastically. “Yeah.”

  “If we were to seek out the Dumnonian Hoard merely for personal gain, what would that accomplish?”

  “I get it, Uncle Marty.”

  Uncle Marty nods, seemingly satisfied. “Very well.”

  “Anything to drink, folks? Tea? Coffee?”

  We all turn and look at the attractive flight attendant who’s just spoken. She’s got wavy, chestnut coloured hair and brown eyes. Her mascara is perfect. Her blush is perfect. Her lips are perfect. I’m jealous. Even moreso when she exchanges a smile with Troy.

  Back off, lady.

  Uncle Marty turns to Josh and I. “Anything to drink guys?” He returns his attention to the flight attendant. “Have you got juice...or V8?”

  She smiles. A perfect smile I hate to say.

  “Yes. We’ve got apple, orange...”

  She rattles off an entire list, though I’m hardly listening. I’m more fixated on how perfect she is.

  Where do they find these girls!? Every flight attendant is like...a nine. And I’m just...I’m just me.

  “Sarah? Do any of those appeal to you?”

  Uncle Marty’s voice shakes me from my stupor. I look up at the flight attendant - well, more through her. I won’t satisfy her with anymore awestruck stares.

  “I’ll have orange juice, please.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  Gah, even her voice is nice.

  I glance at Troy. He’s clearly as smitten as I am - and I’m not even attracted to her. I can only imagine what he must be thinking...

  She hands me a Minute Maid can of orange juice and I take it. “Thanks.”

  She nods and then shifts her gaze to the others. “Anyone else?”

  “When’s supper?” asks Josh, sounding concerned.

  She laughs. (To her credit, it’s a polite laugh.) “Are you getting hungry, mister?”

  Josh nods.

  “He’s a big eater, this one,” says Troy.

  Oh, I see how it is. Getting all flirty with the flight attendant now...

  I can’t help but feel somewhat annoyed with Troy.

  “Well, he must just take after his older brother,” she says with a wink.

  Troy seems to blush. “Oh, we’re not...” he looks at Josh, “we’re not related.”

  “Oh.”

  I love how she feels all awkward now.

  “Well, if those two don’t want anything,” Uncle Marty says, his voice drowning out everyone else, “I’ll go ahead and get another ginger ale.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I want a grape Crush,” says Josh.

  She smiles and looks at my brother as she pours Uncle Marty’s ginger ale. “Sure thing.”

  Oh, stop smiling. Gah, she’s annoying.

  She hands Uncle Marty his drink. “And so, as I said, we will be rolling out the supper cart soon. You’ve got the choice of either chicken or beef - unless you requested one of the special meals?”

  “What’s a special meal?” asks Josh, eyeing his grape Crush as she removes the can from the cold box in her cart.

  She smiles. “Special meals are like diabetic, kosher, vegetarian...”

  “We’re Jewish...but we don’t eat kosher...”

  She smiles again and passes him the can of grape Crush. “You had to request it when you purchased your tickets.” She looks at Uncle Marty. “Do you know if you requested the kosher meals, sir?”

  Uncle Marty shakes his head. “Goodness, no. I can’t even remember the last time I set foot inside a synagogue - let alone the last time I ate kosher!”

  “Fair enough,” she says with another smile.

  Oh my god - stop smiling!

  “I imagine we’ll all have the chicken,” says Uncle Marty, turning to the rest of us. “Hey?”

  I nod. “Chicken’s fine by me.”

  “Me too,” says Josh.

  “Me three,” says Troy.

  The flight attendant finds this cute and laughs.

  Oh, puhleeeeease.

  “You never did tell me what you’d like to drink.”

  Troy looks at her. “I’ll just get a bottle of water, thanks.”

  She smiles. “Of course.”

  I want to strangle her by now and it’s a good thing when she finally moves her cart along.

  “Uncle Martyyyyy,” I groan, growing impatient. “Am I ever going to get to hear this story?”

  He’s halfway through a sip of his ginger ale and he takes it from his mouth as though it’s on fire. “Sorry, Sarah. I do mean to tell you the rest. Where were we?”

  “You were telling Josh how the Dumnonian Hoard, if we find it, belongs in a museum.”

  “Ah, yes. Well - ”

  “But that’s not the part I want to hear,” I interject. “Where, for one, is the Dumnonian Hoard? Or, I mean, where do you think it is?”

  “Now there’s the million dollar question...and yes, that’s pun intended.”

  Hunh?

  “What’s a pun?” asks Josh, a bewildered expression etched across his face.

  Uncle Marty massages his temples, evidently too exasperated with Josh to reply.

  I watch him and fold my arms across my chest. “Well? Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The Dumnonian Hoard!”

  Uncle Marty turns to Troy. “I’ll let you tackle this one.”

  Troy grins. “Sure...so that if we don’t find it, it’s my fault.”

  Uncle Marty chuckles. “You’ve got that right!”

  Troy shakes his head in amusement. “Alright. So, we think the Dumnonian Hoard is in Porspoder because Budoc once had a monastery there.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. First off, where is porse - poh - dair again? I know Uncle Marty told me already, but...and number two, who the heck is Boo - dock?”

  “Porspoder is a small French town on the northwest coast of France,” Troy explains calmly. “In Brittany province. Where we’re going.”

  “Right...okay...”

  “It’s more of a village,” Uncle Marty adds, taking a sip of his ginger ale. “Roughly sixteen hundred people - two thousand if you include the surrounding villages.”

  I nod. “Alright. And who’s Budoc?”

  “Saint Budoc,” answers Troy, “was a man who lived during the sixth century. He was a bishop from Brittany and he was celebrated in both the Dumnonia in England and the Dumnonia in France.”

  “So wait - there’s still a Dumnonia in England?” asks Josh, suddenly interested in our discussion again.

  “No,” says Uncle Marty, though he’s not impatient. “Dumnonia today makes up what are the two counties of Devon and Cornwall.”

  “Oh.”

  “And what about in France?” I ask. “Would the be Brittany province now?”

  Uncle Marty’s face breaks into smile. “That’s it. Precisely.” He’s looking at me with that same sense of wonder he had when I answered the question about the Anglo Saxons. “You sure don’t miss a beat, Sarah.”

  I feel myself blush under his and Troy’s scrutiny. My brother, meanwh
ile, is pretending not to notice the praise being heaped upon me.

  “So...wait. Why, exactly, do you think the Dumnonian Hoard is in Porspoder?”

  Uncle Marty looks at Troy. “Here’s your chance to shine, Mister Trottier.”

  Troy grins. “I don’t know about that...”

  “Oh, quit being so damn modest,” says Uncle Marty with a wave of his hand. “Defending your thesis to Sarah is a lot easier than a panel of tenured professors!”

  “This is true.”

  “Why does he have to defend his thesis?” I ask. “What is that anyway?”

  “It basically means I have to explain my thesis and justify my arguments.”

  “What’s your thesis?”

  “You don’t know what a thesis is?” Josh blurts, adding a snort of derision.

  “I know what a thesis is, dumb ass. I’m asking Troy what his thesis is.”

  My stunning retort renders my brother speechless.

  “You two really need to work on arguing less,” says Uncle Marty, his tone grave. “We can’t have you fighting the entire time. I won’t allow it. In fact, - ”

  Uncle Marty’s interrupted by a laugh from the woman in the aisle next to us.

  We look at her. She’s got dark hair and piercing black eyes and her lip stick is this dark shade of red similar to what Stacey’s mom uses.

  “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean...” she laughs again. “Ludwig and I used to fight like zat ven vee ver children.”

  Her German accent makes me smile. I’m not sure why. Probably because I’ve never met someone with a German accent. Well, not in person at least. I’ve seen and heard plenty in the movies...

  “Well, these two are getting to be too old to be fighting like they do,” Uncle Marty replies, casting a stern eye toward me and Josh.

  “How old are zey?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen!? Why, in Germany they would be able to vote next year.” The woman leans forward in her seat to get a better look at us. “You cannot be so immature as zat at zis age...it’s not right.”

  Uncle Marty nods. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell them.”

  The woman smiles. “Well, hopefully your vacation will make them appreciate you more.” She turns to us. “You must show respect to your father.”

  Uncle Marty chuckles. “They’re not mine.”

  At the same time, I chime in with: “He’s not our dad.”

  “They’re my brother’s.”

  “He’s our uncle.”

  The woman’s expression is suddenly apologetic. “Oh, I am very sorry.”

  Uncle Marty chuckles. “No need to apologize. We seem to get that quite often, actually.” He looks at me and I look away.

  It’s bad enough he’s my uncle...to have him as my dad!? No thanks!

  “Well, this is my brother, anyway,” says the woman, indicating the man beside her.

  Unlike her, he’s got blonde - almost bleached looking - hair and he’s wearing a tan coloured Ralph Polo blazer.

  Uncle Marty nods in his direction. “Nice to meet you.” He turns to the woman. “I didn’t get your name...”

  “Mika.”

  “Mika,” Uncle Marty repeats. He seems to by trying the name out on his tongue. “Mee - kah.”

  “And my brother, Ludwig?”

  “Looh - dwig.”

  Mika smiles. “Your pronunciation is very goot.”

  Her voice is throaty and has a purr to it. And with her long nails and striking dark eyes, she seems more cat than woman.

  “Your accent...,” says Uncle Marty slowly. Is that...German?”

  “Yay!” Mika exclaims, clapping her hands with delight. “How did you guess?”

  I’ve never seen Uncle Marty blush the way I see him blush now. “Oh...you know...I’ve met a few people from Germany in my time.”

  Mika nods politely. “Well, now you’ve met two more.”

  “I suppose I have,” says Uncle Marty with a smile.

  “And you? Vat is your name?”

  “Martin. Martin Rosenberg. And these are my niece and nephew, Sarah and Joshua. And this here,” he reaches an arm across me and claps Troy on the shoulder, “is my grad student, Troy Trottier.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” says Troy, nodding in Mika and Ludwig’s direction.

  Mika smiles, purring softly. “And? Where are you all from?” she asks, her brown eyes probing and intelligent.

  “Canada. The country we just left.”

  Mika claps her hands together as she did before. “Oh, how fortunate you are! Such a lovely country! Hey, Ludwig? Kanada ist schön?”

  Ludwig’s expression is one of agreement. “Ja, kanada ist schön.”

  I turn to Troy and whisper: “Do you know what they’re saying?”

  He nods. “Yeah. They’re saying that Canada is beautiful.”

  I’m impressed. Troy speaks German too...no wonder Jamie (Stacey’s older sister) is always going on about how good college guys are so much better than high school guys...

  “Were you visiting?” asks Uncle Marty, slurping down the rest of his ginger ale.

  Mika smiles, flashing two rows of pearly whites. “Sort of. I was on business. Only for Ludwig, it was a holiday.”

  “Lucky guy,” says Uncle Marty, throwing a nod to Ludwig.

  “I don’t know about zat, Martin,” says Ludwig. “If lucky is holding your sister’s purse and going with her shopping the whole day.” He and Uncle Marty share a laugh. “Then, yes, I suppose you can say zat I am lucky.”

  “My sympathies,” says Uncle Marty with another chuckle.

  Mika mocks their laughing with a sarcastic laugh of her own. “And meanwhile I am zee one who makes zee money in our household. Perhaps next time,” she turns to her brother. “I will make you pay for your half of zee vacation.”

  Now it’s Ludwig’s smile that disappears.

  Mika laughs. “But then, where would I be without my bruder?”

  There’s a pause and then after a minute, Uncle Marty asks: “What do you do for a living, Mika? If I can ask...”

  “What do you mean, what do I do for a living, Martin?”

  She’s teasing him, I can tell. Though I’m not sure he can.

  “I mean...sorry...I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  She leans across the aisle and rests a hand on his arm. “I’m only joking with you, Martin. You Canadians are too polite sometimes.”

  (Uncle Marty shrugs apologetically causing Mika to laugh.)

  “I verk in fashion. I’m a buyer.”

  “Oh, isn’t that interesting. I’m sure my niece would love to pick your brain about that,” Uncle Marty turns away from her and toward me, “hey, Sarah, did you hear that? Mika works in fashion. I’ll bet she’s met all sorts of famous models. Like the ones in your magazines.”

  “Um...yeah...maybe.”

  I know you’re trying to be nice, Uncle Marty, but...gah.

  “I vud love to talk about my virk vith you, Sarah,” says Mika, leaning forward and looking directly at me. “Or, as your uncle says, pick my brain. Vat an odd expression...”

  Her eyes are almost dangerous. With their long eyelashes and piercing gaze.

  “Um...yeah...” I give a nervous laugh. I hate being put on the spot.

  I look up and see the flight attendant coming down the aisle with the food cart. I never thought I’d say this, but...I’m happy to see her.

  “Supper time! Mmmm, I’m starving. Anyone else as hungry as I am?”

  On cue, everyone looks up.

  “Ah, yes, supper time,” says Uncle Marty, unhitching his tray table and letting it down.

  “Ahhh, how can you eat when you fly?” asks Mika, seemingly disgusted.

  Uncle Marty shrugs. “Never thought about it. Why? Is it bad to eat when you fly?”

  “Vell, it’s not goot. I mean, your body is under a lot of pressure.” She turns to Ludwig and rattles off a sentence in German.

  He nods as he listens to each word a
nd when she’s finished he says something in German (well, what I presume is German) and then adds the word “atmospheric.”

  “Ja, ja, ja,” says Mika, returning her attention to Uncle Marty, “atmospheric pressure.”

  She doesn’t quite say it right - but it’s understandable enough.

  “Atmospheric pressure?” asks Uncle Marty, looking perplexed.

  “Yes.” Mika cups her tight stomach (it’s easy to see she’s in shape) with both hands, “atmospheric pressure and you can’t...” She turns to Ludwig once more and says a word in German.

  He translates: “digest.”

  Now Uncle Marty seems to understand. “Ahhh, so with the increased atmospheric pressure, it’s difficult to digest. And therefore you don’t eat when you fly.”

  Mika smiles and then he smiles because he’s clearly happy that she’s happy.

  “Well, then. I suppose you two won’t be eating? Would you mind terribly if you asked for a meal anyways and perhaps I could have it?”

  I’m horrified at my uncle’s question and I slap his arm without thinking.

  “Uncle Marty!”

  “I mean...er...if it’s not too rude of me to ask...” he says timidly, glancing sheepishly at the German siblings.

  Mika laughs, a deep throaty laugh. “You Canadians! Overly polite one minute, too bold zee next minute!”

  “I really didn’t mean to be...bold. I apologize.”

  “I’m joking vith you! Martin! Lighten up!” She pats his arm and flashes another one of her picture-perfect smiles.

  Now, instead of feeling sheepish, Uncle Marty looks almost pleased. “Well...I suppose...”

  It’s at this moment that the flight attendant arrives. She stops the cart between our row of seats and Mika and Ludwig’s row of seats.

  “Supper? Did we decide?”

  “We did indeed,” says Uncle Marty, patting his stomach, his tray table at the ready. “I’ll have the chicken.”

  The flight attendant smiles. “Certainly.” She pulls open a metal compartment on her cart, the word “HOT” written on it in big red letters, and I watch as she removes a TV style dinner. It’s a metal foil container with a cardboard top.

  “There you are, sir,” she says, placing it on Uncle Marty’s tray table.

  “Thank you.”

  She gives him a smile and shifts her gaze to me. “And for you?”

  “Chicken.”

  She nods and repeats what she’s just done for Uncle Marty.

  “Thanks.”

  She nods and moves onto Josh.

  In the time it takes for her to serve my brother and Troy and move onto Mika, I can see why Uncle Marty might want another one.

  The meals are...tiny. Like...tiny. In one compartment, I count three broccoli stalks and four carrot slices. In another, a miniscule serving of rice. And in another, three chicken tenders, each the size of my pinky finger.

  I lean into my uncle. “Can I have some of your extra one?” I whisper, somewhat ashamed to be asking.

  He nods without speaking, chewing noisily (mouth closed thankfully!).

  When we’ve finished eating - about half an hour later - the flight attendants come around to gather up the garbage.

  “Did you enjoy your meal?” asks the pretty flight attendant who’d served us earlier.

  Though she’s looking at all of us, I can tell she’s addressing Troy specifically - and I don’t like it.

  “It was okay,” I say, lazily, handing her my empty food container and empty cup. “They sure were small meals...”

  The flight attendant offers an apologetic smile. “Yeah...we get that a lot,” she says with a nervous laugh

  I glance at Troy. He seems mesmerized by her.

  “So...have you ever taken your girlfriend on a trip before?” I ask, loud enough for the flight attendant to hear.

  I sense her sudden shut down as soon as I’ve uttered the word “girlfriend”.

  “What do you mean?”

  Troy looks almost angry and I sense I’ve crossed a line.

  “I mean...because we’re going to Europe and all...I was just wondering...if you’d ever taken her anywhere or whatever.”

  He looks at me through slanted eyes and I can tell what he’s thinking. He’s wondering whether I’m devious enough to do what I just did or whether my question was of a purely innocent nature.

  He shakes his head as the flight attendant collects the last of our garbage and moves on. “I have no idea how that is even relevant to anything right now.”

  “Okay, whoa. I’m sorry.”

  Troy scowls and looks away.

  Holy crap. P.M.S. much?

  “Hey, everything alright, you two?”

  Uncle Marty looks concerned.

  I nod. “Yeah. Everything’s alright. Why?”

  He glances at Troy. “I don’t know...it just seemed like you two might be arguing about something...”

  I shake my head. “No. We’re good.” I look at Troy. “Right?”

  He meets my hopeful smile with a stoic nod and that’s that.

  A few more minutes pass, the lights on the plane are turned down, and after getting myself a blanket and a pillow, I tuck in for some shuteye.