“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard (fill in whichever airline company you prefer in this space) flight 233, Atlanta to Boston. This is your captain speaking; we should be arriving at our destination in about thirty-five minutes. Current temperature in Boston is fifty-eight degrees, winds out of the west at fifteen miles per hour. Enjoy your flight and we will touch down in Boston shortly,” cracks the voice from the speaker.

Trickling down the aisle are the passengers of the flight, a faceless blend of men, women and children of several races, colors and creeds, taking their respective seats in a methodical fashion. Placing their oversized luggage in the cramped overheard compartments, most of the commuters soon sit back, relax and begin dozing off or daydreaming as the flight attendants begin making their rounds and reading empty instructions preparing for takeoff.

One such passenger is Tyus Hart, a dark haired and dark eyed young man ignoring safety protocol in favor of partaking in a newspaper crossword puzzle. As the engines come to a roar and the plane begins ascending, Hart descends into slumber, stretching his legs and sprawling his arms and taking advantage of an empty adjacent seat as he lays his head against the window...

 Awaking in a cold sweat that sends shockwaves of shivers soaring throughout his extremities, Hart manages to pull open his eyes, where three passengers and a stewardess have gathered to monitor him.

“Ladies and gentleman, we have arrived at our destination, welcome to Boston,” exclaims the captain from the overhead speaker.

“Boston?” mutters Hart, grimacing his facial muscles to showcase a perplexed look.

“Are you all right mister? You were shaking pretty bad at one point, and murmuring something?” asks a passenger seated directly in front of him.

“Yes, I just get a little antsy on flights, especially the landing, that is all,” replies Hart.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water perhaps?” asks a young stewardess.

“Yes please,” replies Hart.

“Well everything is all right now, we are here in Boston, the plane ride is over,” explains an elderly passenger, as Hart nods his head.

     Retreating to gather a glass of water is the stewardess, as the passengers depart from the plane, with Hart resting his head against the seat, an exhausted look of exasperation overcoming his face.

“Here you are sir,” exclaims the stewardess providing him a tall glass that Hart eagerly guzzles down.

“This is difficult to explain, but that dream, that vision I endured during flight, I feel as though it stole the finer points and remnants of my mind. I cannot wrap my head around it or recall the purpose of my trip here to Boston. The specifics of my business here are lost on me, where I’m supposed to go, who I am supposed to see, what I am supposed to do,” explains Hart, softly pounding his head in frustration with the knuckles of each hand...

2: Prologue

Please feel free to ride along with us if you will, free of charge, there is an open seat next to our protagonist. Enter Mr. Tyus Hart, twenty-nine years of age and just months shy of his thirtieth birthday. An educated man recently married and with a daughter on the way, Mr. Hart is a resident of Atlanta and is no stranger when it comes to riding along on airplanes. He is free from any suffering of pteromerhanophobia, which you have probably heard described in layman’s terms as a fear of flying. In fact Mr. Hart usually does not become so much as airsick during flight, given the comfort he feels riding high above and soaring through the clouds like he’s commandeering a chariot of the Gods.

A man riding high in more ways than one and with all of his ducks in a row at the current stage of his life, it is only appropriate that his profession remain hidden at this juncture of the story. Knowing why he is departing to Boston, and very much aware of what he is going to do once he arrives, and the day after that, so on and so forth, are a handful of important facts that have just been lost during shipment and scattered to the wind, although he cannot submit a lost and found declaration at any baggage claim in effort to retrieve them. Flight amnesia is a condition generally occurring during long international travel, but for reasons unknown a powerful variety has just struck on this relatively short domestic flight, rendering our character a "broken Hart", and man of mystery. Please buckle up your seat belt, the flight may be over but some heavy turbulence remains forthcoming, as the journey through life for Mr. Hart is about to take an unanticipated detour...

3: Chapter 2

“According to your driver’s license your name is Tyus Hart, twenty-nine years and a resident of Atlanta, is this information correct?” asks a voice.

“It is,” replies Hart.

“Please tell us of your experience, Mr. Hart, we hear that you had an interesting flight,” the voice calls out.

“I opened my eyes, completely overtaken with the dizzying sensation of vertigo. Feeling as if I were falling, I could not help but reach around me, desperate for anything to grasp. I closed my eyes tightly, as if it were best not to look. All of a sudden it changed, as I felt as if I were floating. Numbness briefly flowed through my body as I felt as though I were not even moving. I imagined that I was outside of the plane windows, out in the clouds, just floating through time and space. The type of description that a child would have of a man floating in the sky, whereas I knew that was not the case, seeing how I was breathing oxygen, was not freezing cold, nor was I plummeting to the Earth below,” explains Hart.

“Go on,” replies the voice of the doctor.

“That is when it dawned on me, I was the only one on the plane. Not a single person seated ahead of me, or behind me. Sure enough we were thousands of miles above the ground, as glancing out the window I deduced the stunning conclusion that the plane was flying and the engines were working. Too alarmed with my surroundings to remain seated, the searing heat of adrenaline coursed through my veins. Panicked, I began shouting for help, finding none. Rushing to the front of the aircraft I found that the cockpit had been locked. Running towards the back of the aircraft I was desperate for someone, something, anything that could help me. I noticed a buzzing sound atop one of the seats, a seat which I remember as 10C. I felt the urge to sit in that particular seat, as if it were my sanctuary. Next thing I knew, a brilliant light flashed, rendering me blind, or so I had thought,” explains Hart with a long pause.

“After that, I was gasping for air, the passengers around me were concerned with my behavior, and the plane had completed its descent and was landing. I assured them that I was merely startled at the descent, that I had felt airsick, and just to be safe I manufactured a false phobia of flying on behalf of myself. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. My fellow passengers were quite supportive of me in my apparent moment of need, and one lady emphatically stated that all was fine, that we were now in Boston. That is when it dawned upon me, I had no recollection of what the purpose was for my trip to Boston,” explains Hart.

“You don’t recall if you are here to conduct business of sort? See family or friends? What is your occupation?” asks the doctor.

“Not a clue, I feel as though a portion of my brain that I hold very near and dear to me has been lifted. Sounds ridiculous but that is all that I can say. Regarding my occupation I’m sort of in between jobs at the moment, transition phase.” replies Hart.

“That is some story”, remarks another member of the airport’s medical personnel staff.

“What do you remember about the details of your travel plans beforehand? Do you remember what you were doing in the days preceding the flight, and what happened before you had your vision?”

“I was...home in Atlanta, that is all that I remember, the details beyond that grow quite cloudy in my mind. Prior to my flight experience, I was sitting in my seat aboard the aircraft, completing a crossword puzzle. I recall the captain speaking, the plane taking off, and very little else. It was as if I had drifted off to sleep, just as you never recall the precise moment of falling asleep in any given night, it was the same type of event for me,” reveals Hart.

“I do not know why I came to Boston. I do not know of any person in this city, of any business or meeting, or connecting flight, or anything,” explains Hart feverishly sliding his hands across his scalp to relieve the pressure mounting in his sinuses.

“To touch on matters of standard protocol, do you have any medical issues, are you on any type of medication?” asks a member of the medical personnel.

“Nothing of the sort. I can recall a physical I had no longer than a few months ago. Blood pressure, cholesterol, all of the vitals...nothing out of the ordinary for a man of my age. No history of mental illness in my family, or in me in particular, I have no health issues whatsoever, I can assure you of that!” shouts Hart in frustration, as if to ward off any accusations.

“I exited off of the aircraft and I did not know why I was in Boston, and the more I tried to remember, the more I felt as though I were forgetting. I scoured every nook and cranny of my mind, the more alarmed I became as I continued finding more questions than answers, it was terrifying, and I still feel terrified, as if I’m losing my mind! All that I knew was that I needed help for this, this flight amnesia, and so I sought you out as fast as I could,” explains Hart.

“Although I am not sure how relieved you will be to hear this, there is a condition that we have occasionally seen. Transient global amnesia, or TGA for short, is a temporary, yet very strong and impacting form of amnesia. Your experience seems to fit the criteria for this, however from what I have seen in my career, this TGA has only occurred in patients flying vast differences, such as international flights over the ocean. Atlanta to Boston hardly qualifies as a transatlantic flight. The best thing for you to do is to rest. We can arrange transportation and a room for you if you would like,” replies the medical personnel figure.

“I hardly suppose that a stay in a loony bin or mental ward or God knows whatever the politically correct term for madhouse is these days would make things better for me,” replies Hart.

“St. John’s Medical Center is a standard, run of the mill hospital Mr. Hart, with doctors and nurses and patients, ambulances and an emergency room, the whole nine yards,” explains the man. “In my medical judgment a night for observation would be the best thing for you, as you regain your memory."

Nodding with understanding is the perplexed Mr. Hart, a man with limited choices that just wishes to lay down and rest someplace that is comfortable and quiet, faraway from the hustle and bustle of the airport.

“I don’t feel as though any other option on the table would trump your suggestion. I cannot stay at this airport, nor is there anywhere in the vicinity that I could go at the moment. I do not wish to fly back to Atlanta, for it all started with the plane ride in the first place and a plane is the last place that I would like to be right now. I also do not wish to alert my wife at this time...I cannot in good faith unload this before her and send her into a tizzy,” explains Hart.

“You’re married? Tell us about your wife, that may ring some bells,” instructs the doctor.

“As a matter of fact our wedding bells were ringing roughly one year ago. She is easy to picture in my mind, or what is left of it,” quips Hart. Beautiful dark hair and eyes like the sun, they’re not light, they are very much dark but, well you just have to see them,” replies Hart.

“Tell us what she is like?” asks the doctor.

“It’s slipping, my thoughts, as if they are just outside of my grasp. I can see them and picture them, but I cannot make them out. All I can tell you is that I love her very much,” replies Hart, clutching his head in agony. “I accept your offer, help me please!” he pleads.

Reaching the facility Mr. Hart begins his night of evaluation, being assessed and scrutinized by a small team of doctors, poked and prodded with the same array of questions as those posed by the medical personnel in the airport, his responses growing increasingly harsh with the enhanced redundancy of each passing minute.

Just as he had done during his physical a few months prior, the rest of his tests grade out most impressively, both physically and psychologically speaking. So positive are the results that the medical staff is left is left with little recourse but to conclude that there is most likely no long-term amnesia at play, and that all should be fine within a twenty-four hour period at most. Encouraged to phone his wife in order to engage in a routine discussion with the hope of shedding light on his memory loss, Hart reluctantly picks up the phone and begins dialing, growing as nervous with her as he has since asking for her hand in marriage nearly two years ago.

“Hello?” She answers.

“Hey honey, it’s me,” he responds with a slight quiver in his voice.

     “Oh hey, how was your thing today?” she asks.     

“I uh, well I wasn’t able to make it, it was postponed. Did they happen to call the house and explain why by chance?”

     “No, why would they do that?” she asks.      

“I’m not sure,” he replies, feigning a chuckle. “I love you.”

     “I love you too, I’ll see you in a week,” she exclaims, finally shedding some light on the situation.

     “A week? Am I supposed to be gone that long?” he asks.

“You were, unless they cancelled the San Francisco thing as well. I’m jealous, wish I could have came along with you! Sorry to cut this short but I have to run, I don’t want to burn the food on the stove. Love you, bye,” she explains, hanging up the phone.

     “San Francisco?” What is in San Francisco, I’ve never even been there before,” he says aloud to the staff.

     In order to help up clear some aspects of the mystery, the staff proceeds to contact the airport, learning that Mr. Hart has a flight to San Francisco scheduled a few days ahead.

     “This is how it is going to work tonight. We’re going to leave you be now, all you have to do is relax and rest. You’re in great health and you should not have anything to worry about. If your memory is still not jarred by morning, we will make a few phone calls and run a background check to learn more about you. Goodnight Mr. Hart,” explains the doctor, shutting off the lights as the man afflicted with amnesia attempts to replay the events of the flight over and over again as if his brain is on auto-pilot, desperately searching for answers among the fog clouding his recollection. 

4: Chapter 3

Just as the phrase early to bed, early to rise is far easier in theory than it is in application, so too were the instructions from the doctor as Hart continues to lay awake for hours, his memory growing more and more faint the harder he tries remembering, as if his mind were immersed in a pool of quicksand, or as if the amnesia were a virus spreading rapidly in his bloodstream.

“Who would have thought when I woke up this morning that I would be spending the night in a Boston hospital under observation due to amnesia. I can’t even remember waking up this morning,” Hart says aloud to himself in perplexing fashion, shaking his head.

     Unable to conjure up any further clues pertaining to his identity or his intentions in Boston, his thoughts drift to what the doctors believe may have caused this episode, analyzing each of them one at a time.

     Transient global amnesia is the theory leader in the clubhouse after day one, which may have been caused by a loss of pressure in the cabin reducing the oxygen to his brain, which due to sleeping may have been functioning at a much slower rate, and would have been unable to recognize the loss in pressure.

     Another theory proposed is that the man may have a subconscious fear of flying, or fright of flight as he called it, which could have been triggered at any moment of the flight, resulting in a blackout that could have lasted for the duration of the flight resulting in temporary amnesia.

     It was reasoned that the feeling of being alone on board the aircraft was most likely not a delusion or a hallucination, and instead was nothing more than a dream sequence, citing that he passed his psychological testing with flying colors and given the fact that he was asleep while onboard the flight. A theory also takes hold that perhaps the dream was so powerful that it struck a nerve with Hart, leaving a lasting impact on the psyche as to momentarily deprive him of his short-term memory, while his growing apprehension was beginning to contaminate aspects of his long-term memory.

     All are plausible scenarios, yet Hart has problems grasping any of the above, unwilling to embrace the complex possibilities while still not fully understanding who he is and what his endeavors are at the moment. Squeezing the pillow around his head following hours of agonizingly combing his mind, his focus turns towards a simple thought: Less thoughts and more sleep, a statement bearing repeating, and proving to be the final thought process of the night.

     Awakening at about 5:30 the following morning, Hart rises from the bed in order to fetch a glass of water to quench the thirst of his parched mouth. Filling the satisfying liquid to the rim of the glass and knocking back a long drink, a tingling sensation envelopes him before the water has a chance to settle in his stomach. A perception of lightheadedness and loss of equilibrium takes hold again just as it did on the plane, as the faint feeling man clutches for anything that can break his fall as the dizzying spell overcomes him as he slips out of consciousness...

     The eyes of Tyus Hart open almost instantaneously from the moment of the fall, as he feels the momentum of motion, finding himself back as a passenger aboard the ghost plane. Shifting view from side to side and up and down the aisles, not a single soul is in sight alongside him onboard the plane.

“This is just a dream, I am not conscious, I will wake up once again,” he begins whispering to himself, with his hands covering his ears. Moments pass with no change of scenery, causing Hart to continue speaking those words again, soon shouting them as if he is evoking a chant that will break whatever complexities are held by the dizzying spell that has distorted itself into something that can better be categorized as a witching spell, as his tension continues to grow along with his paranormal denial.

     The lights on the plane begin flickering on and off, the ceiling compartments shuffling open as yellow oxygen masks come tumbling down, growing the escalating ire of our lone passenger. All of a sudden the sole light shining on the plane is a light glowing down one seat, numbered 10C, the same seat from the first encounter aboard the abandoned aircraft. Rushing towards it in hopes of experiencing the same warmth and sanctuary type calmness seat 10C provided the first time, along with the optimism that it will result in the climax of this vision, the hopes of the young amnesiac are soon dashed. Instead of finding peace as he did during the previous vision, this time the plane appears to have changed course, causing Hart to stagger to his feet and rush towards the cockpit, which is not sealed closed this time. Stumbling inside, the lone passenger is shocked to discover that there are no pilots inside. “Hello? Hello?” he shouts into the radio, hearing no reply and unable to abstain from screaming in panic, “this plane is out of control!”

     Sifting through the flight instruments and equipment and taking the controls in an attempt to steady the plane, the sinking feeling in his stomach grows more massive as nothing can be done. The soft tilt of the plane angle takes a plunging, beginning its descent into a nosedive, the type so sudden in nature as to cause any seasoned veteran pilot to grow airsick and weary. Plummeting to earth as the plane spirals out of control, the brown-yellow color of the ground comes into view as Hart clings to the loose fibers remaining of his life as he braces for impact, an impact he estimates will occur in about twenty seconds—-only it takes about five seconds before a brilliant bright light flashes its way into Hart’s eyes, extinguishing his thoughts before his brain is able to comprehend the stereotypical fade to black brought about by the hand of death, as the vision comes to an end. 

5: Chapter 4

Awaking on the floor of the hospital is Hart, gathering his thoughts and absorbing the attributes of his surroundings, still damp from the fumbled glass of water, yet drenched enough from the cold sweat of his second vision, one so vivid and terrifying in nature as to render a night terror on par with a happy dream. Heart pounding and short of breath his thoughts scan the acreage of his mind before striking something carefully lodged and tucked away underneath the surface. Uncovering his lost recollection, a jolt of satisfaction warms his chilled blood as the amnesia is shattered, as Hart polishes the contents of his cerebral treasure. Washing away the remaining trepidation, a smile overtakes his face; feeling so much better realizing that he remembers it all, he remembers everything.

     The short-term flight amnesia has at last loosened its ironclad grip and departed from him as he wastes little time picking up where he left off before the incident, glancing around the room in an effort to find the nearest clock.

“Success!” he declares upon finding the digits of the hour and minute, ascertaining that there is still enough time to depart, to leave Boston and continue on his journey to San Francisco, time enough to leave this forsaken place and step back into the swing of his daily life.

     Summoning the medical staff seeking release, he explains how their hypothesis indeed proved correct, as the memory lapse was of short duration, as he has successfully regained every nugget of information residing in his mind. The reason for his stop in Boston was business related, a courtesy meeting with various colleagues and associates, and it was not a huge deal that he missed out on the meeting.

     However, more pressing matters are awaiting in San Francisco, as he is to broker an important transaction that morning that will yield untold gains for his company, a coronation of sorts, and he must make it at all costs.

     Answering a few brief questions posed by the medical staff to ensure the man is of sound mind and able to withstand the rigors of flight, Hart passes this simple test with flying colors, followed by generously offering up whatever costs necessary to cover the expense of their work and his overnight stay, along with any other incidental costs in an effort to reach the airport as quickly as possible to avoid missing his flight. His health cleared, along with his credit card, a checkered taxicab swiftly arrives to chauffeur Mr. Hart to the airport.

     In the rush and chaos of the morning, Hart fails to analyze his visions as carefully and as thoroughly as he probably should have, maintaining his focus instead on the passing people, cars and buildings of the city and tapping nervously on the glass of the car window. As the taxicab whisks through the fury of the rush hour traffic of the busy city and reaches the airport exit, Hart at last begins debating whether or not he should get on that plane, for perhaps those visions occurred for a reason. Leaning towards another theory, he begins convincing himself that perhaps the visions were merely some type of fainting spell, his nerves getting the better of him brought on by the wake and stress of his upcoming work.

     The crisis of conscious in his mind continues as he nears the airport, just ten minutes away now and counting. Still debating whether to fly or not, deep down his instincts are screaming that something may not be right, but it is far easier to suppress those instincts than it is to pass up this business opportunity of a lifetime presenting itself to him. His thoughts entangled with thoughts of the closing, the money and possible promotion that may accompany it, surely he cannot turn a blind eye to all of the above, along with the twenty or so colleagues of his based in the United States and many more watching from around the world, merely on accord of some daydream arising from a fainting spell.

     Five minutes away now from the airport, one last deep thought overpowers him, as his mind continues to race. He would be lying if his previous visions of that plane soaring, floating aimlessly through the skies and crashing in a fiery spectacle had not crossed his mind as he readied to depart the cross country trek skirting the heavens up in the clouds. However, the business and career implications were too vital and important to pass up. They always seem to be, every time. No matter what concerns happen to coincide, whether they be health, family, time, money, select your weapon of choice...when push comes to shove, you know what takes precedence, you know where your loyalties and allegiances lay, as do they, as the chinks of our battle armor more closely resembles a slathering of Swiss cheese rife with holes as opposed to a white knight of invincibility. The vast majority of us live by this unspoken code, this unwritten rule, regardless of whether we dare admit it or not.

     Unless of course you possess the vocational equivalent of a nameless peasant or conversely are one perched in a neat position of privilege, high enough to dwarf the rest of the human food chain that is affectionately known as the workforce. You know the type of position, the ones consisting of authority, security, and flexibility. Like millions of others across our country, Mr. Hart does not enjoy such a prestigious current placement, and was willing to make certain sacrifices in order to continue on in his hike up the mountain in order to achieve it. I am not the first to do so, nor will I be the last, he thought to himself.

6: Chapter 5

Arriving at his destination with only minutes to spare, Hart drops a gratuitous forty dollars on the seat as he rushes away inside Logan Airport in a mad dash. Springing up the escalator, spotting his gate assignment and moving through the security line at a most impressive pace, clearing the metal detectors he scrambles towards the front desk of the gate. “Tyus Hart, Flight 28 to San Francisco, I have a ticket for this flight,” he manages to say between exhausted breaths.

I am sorry to inform you Mr. Hart, but the boarding procedure has closed and the plane has left the gate,” explains the woman behind the counter.

“No, I am not hearing this! After what I have endured in the past several days! You don’t understand, my destiny is awaiting me in San Francisco, the fate of my life depends upon it!” he angrily shouts.

“You’re breaking my heart. Sir, had the plane still been connected here with the gate I happily would have been able to get them to postpone takeoff, but there is nothing I can do regarding placing you on this flight. Would you like me to book you on the next flight to San Francisco?” she asks.

     “How long from now will that be?” he asks, still angry but calming down.

Checking the contents of her computer screen, she glances back up. “The next flight for San Francisco leaves at 10:30.”

It may be the next best time available, but it is not good enough for Hart, looking down at the floor in shame. There will be no coronation ceremony for him on that day, no achieved business objective, no accompanying celebration, and no promotion in sight, especially after being truant on his obligations in Boston.

“Sure,” he replies in a defeated tone. “That will do I suppose.”

     Taking a seat in frustration in the waiting area near the gate, our protagonist begins contemplating his next move as he buries his head in his hands. Reaching into his pockets for his cell phone and finding not a trace of it, his disheartened feelings are replaced with annoyance upon remembering that he had stuffed his phone inside of his bag, that annoyance transitioning into a disgruntled grimace upon realizing that his bag had mistakenly been left behind in the taxicab in the haste of his hurried exchange.

     Taking a seat across the way from Hart is a young soldier, exhibiting what could be described as rather cheerful, exuberant behavior, almost gleeful in nature as he combs through a newspaper.

“Excuse me sir, I’m not one to pry, but it appears as though you’re having a rough morning, is everything all right?” asks the soldier, whose nametag reads Woods.

     “Well, I feel as though I am knee deep amidst the worst sequence of my life. After recovering from a bout with amnesia, I was all set to fly out to San Francisco, but I was not able to make it here on time. I’m only missing out on, well, the most important business opportunity of my career,” reveals Hart. “I feel as though the fate of the world is in my hands.”

     “Sometimes I feel as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders too. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been stationed overseas for the past year, I have almost forgotten what it is like to be here, to be alive, to be with my family. Being a private, all that I can do is to follow orders, so I don’t have any pull. Being abroad, you feel like an amnesiac sometimes, if that makes any sense,” explains the soldier.

     “I believe that I can appreciate that sentiment entirely,” replies Hart.

     The flight desk coordinator announces that boarding has begun for some flight, which Hart is able to decipher through his apathetic ears.

“That’s my flight, good speaking with you sir, and good luck with everything in San Francisco,” exclaims Private Woods to Hart, placing down his newspaper and extending his hand.

“You too, make it count. Be sure to make it count,” replies Hart as the two shake hands, before the soldier begins his trek towards the gate to board his flight.

 Glancing his vision down towards the newspaper the soldier has left on the seat, Hart gazes intently at the date of the newspaper, which reads Tuesday September 11th, 2001, before letting out a heavy sigh.

     At roughly this same moment in time, while enjoying breakfast downtown, the Boston taxicab driver from earlier examines the bags that Hart left inside of the trunk, an occurrence of which happens all too often. Inside the bag the driver pulls out a cell phone, along with a Georgia driver’s license issued to Tyus Hart, and a passport issued to a Lebanese man named Taisir Hariri featuring the same picture included on the driver’s license. Also inside are several documents written in Arabic, along with a Quran. The contents may be strange, but they are hardly anything too unusual for the experienced taxicab driver, who doesn’t bat so much as an eyelash in response as he resumes his lunch.

     The flight to San Francisco has taken off, filled to capacity with the lone exception of Hart’s seat, which just so happens to be numbered 10C, the familiar seat number from his visions. Aboard the aircraft sit three young men, two Saudis and one Yemeni, whom had spent several months planning and plotting the details of their hijacking plot in a terrorist cell alongside with Hariri. Proceeding to look up towards the front of the plane and at each other as the plane readies for takeoff, each of the three are puzzled and perplexed with the absence of Taisir Hariri aboard the flight.                       

Hariri happened to be the ringleader of this particular batch of flight saboteurs, being the eldest of the four at the tender age of twenty-nine, whereas the others are in their early twenties. He also has resided in the United States for two years and happens to be the only one of the four to possess a pilot’s license and thus be competent enough to handle a plane. Sure, the younger three had questioned his loyalty to the operation given his absence at the earlier meeting along with his marriage and familial status, but they were still ordered to embark on their mission under the premise that Hariri would arrive as planned. Fearing that he may have been detained, and with no means to navigate the flight sans the unwilling hands of the current pilots, the three engage in a communicative series of body motions and hand signals. All of them frightened, two of the would be hijackers are successfully able to convince the angry third member to remain seated and desist in their efforts in order to live to die another day, as they make their first respectable decision in quite some time, aborting their plans of hijacking the plane and crashing it into the White House.

     In case you were curious, Private Woods, the soldier returning home did make it back safely, although his return trip led to a detour through Canada as all flights would soon be grounded to an immediate halt on that infamous day. Ironically, Private Woods would heed the advice of Taisir Hariri and make his time with his family count, as he would soon be deployed to Afghanistan within a matter of months. Woods would be killed in a roadside explosion there in 2007 at the age of 33, leaving behind his wife and three children.

     As for Taisir Hariri, AKA Tyus Hart, he would remain at the airport and watch the ensuing coverage and carnage of the unfolding disaster that morning, along with thousands of other curious, shocked onlookers throughout Logan Airport, although he was the only one among the sea of those thousands that fully understood what was transpiring. As the gravity of the situation swelled across the nation and all throughout the world, every airport in the United States was closed, with Logan Airport going on lockdown, but not before Hariri manage to leave the vicinity. An FBI manhunt would come up short, the bounty placed on his head going uncollected, as Taisir Hariri vanished, never to be seen or heard from again...

7: Epilogue

 

This brings us to the closing portion of our story that must be addressed, the curtain call if you will. Amnesia is a most curious condition that is generally a result of physical trauma, although like most anything else there are other less numerous causes, some which cannot be explained. Often times in life we chalk up one thing or another to luck, hiding behind that word like a veil. Truth told, sometimes that is all that you can do to explain a situation or occurrence that defies logic or explanation. We bicker amongst ourselves about fate, or bad luck putting a stop to our most noble objectives. Yet, it is important to remember that this very same luck, or fate if you will, also serves to put the brakes on less noble pursuits.

This is what happened here, where as luck would have it, a bizarre onset of short-term flight amnesia affecting our character would have wide ranging consequences, going so far to help thwart a disaster in the form of a fifth plane that never made it off of the ground on 9/11. Keep in mind that you never know when a minor inconvenience such as a detour, slow traffic, or a slow waitress can be the difference in being at a certain place at a certain time, which could be the difference between life or death. Just ask those who missed a certain flight or who were not in a certain skyscraper on that fateful morning, or those who may have been inside but stepped outside to have a bite to eat, indulge in a smoke, or pay heed to an instinct that was ignored by so many others that returned or remained in place.                                           

So, does there exist a proper way to best characterize luck? Call it fate? Maybe divine intervention, God’s plan if you will. You may prefer simple chance? Perhaps none of the above makes the most sense, or perhaps even all of the above would be the correct answer, if this were posed as a multiple-choice question. In the grand scheme of things the semantics of it matters little, what is important is to understand that whatever it is and wherever its source is derived from, it goes both ways, for better or worse.

     So sit back, relax, and look out into the clouds as you ponder the mysteries in life. Or better yet, don't, as our time here is limited, and it would best be served to “make it count.”

END

-In remembrance to the victims of 9/11, their families and friends. Never forget the defining moment of our generation.