"Oh," says Tim lightly, fighting back the inevitable chill of knowing he's probably done something horribly, horribly wrong at blame me for their death. "Good."

The thing roars forward, because moderation's for chumps, apparently, and one hand grips at the edge of seat, white-knuckled, his jaw tensed shut as if that might ease the initial terror of being lifted into the air.

"Let's not fall out of the sky, if, uh, if that's possible."