Once the slime was gone, I braided Brittany’s oily but completely intact extensions so they couldn’t fall over the seat again. I told her she was already pretty and didn’t need hundreds of dollars in upgrades to prove anything. She apologized for throwing her hair at me and mocking my age. I apologized for the slime. When the flight attendant returned asking whether Brittany still wanted police waiting at the gate, she hesitated before saying no. She knew exactly how the livestream looked: after tormenting everyone for an hour, she’d practically invited the retaliation.

There was still one unfinished matter. I reminded Brittany about the hundred-dollar bill she’d grabbed from the floor. Her eyes widened. She claimed she’d thought it belonged to her, and I politely pretended to believe her. She returned it, and we called ourselves even. Back in my seat, Harold—the gentleman beside me who had witnessed the entire disaster—asked whether I’d like coffee after landing. “Are you always this forward with women on airplanes?” I asked. “Only the dangerous ones,” he replied. As we began our descent, I realized my granddaughter wouldn’t be getting her slime after all. Emily would get a check instead, and we’d buy another present together.