My Mom Flies An Fighter Jet

I asked.

Her eyes moved toward the dark window. His name is Elias Voss. He was one of ours.

The scratched out face?

She nodded. He betrayed us.

I looked at the metal box, at the photo, at the black ink where a face should have been. But you said he should be dead.

He crashed over the Black Sea twelve years ago.

Maybe it wasn’t him.

Mom’s silence answered continue reading …