Departing Chicago.
The plane is nearly empty. Everyone sits down quickly, immediately orders a drink.
There are ribbons of newspapers, expired information.
What's happening in Virginia? Indiana? Pennsylvania?
Everything is dark. The plane queues for takeoff with a whine. Flight stewards talk about nothing. "When will we know?" "Maybe tonight."
On earth the polls are closing. Above the plane is hermetically sealed. No information enters or leaves. We settle into the sky above Lake Michigan, among satellites blinking quietly above the water.
Somewhere below, above the night, comes a phone call.
Hello?
Hi, it's me.
Oh. Hi.
What's up?
Nothing. You?
I think I'm going to bed.
OK. I guess it's late.
Yes. I'm tired. You go on without me.
OK.