The stink of sandalwood and machine grease assail my sinus as Carl pulls me close, cinching the harness tight to my body. Bits of belting and buckle burrow into the fleshy excess under my arm and up the inner thigh. My heart races and my skin vibrates. I can feel Carl feel it, the bulk of his body invading areas the rigging won’t reach, a tacked and tacky sensation. Outside, the propellers spin and masticate the wind, spitting the shrieking remains throughout the fuselage. “Don’t be scared,” he whispers, breath hot and wet upon my neck, “I’ve got you.”