On the plane to Aruba, Alice gazed out the window with a sense of impending doom: insofar as she saw her life as a conspiracy against itself, falling from the heavens en route to her honeymoon sounded particularly tragic, if not perversely satisfying. Greg munched on the salted almonds the flight attendant passed out, his free hand limp against her thighs. Despite her warnings, he’d refused to put his phone on airplane mode. The clouds outside wrapped their jet in gauze.