“oh, dear child” said mrs. gordon as we sat in the dim light of her living room. “that poor thing has been there since i remember. i’ve lived here all my life and have no idea how it got there. the farmer used it as an office for a while, then it just became a target for the kids in the area. it’s pretty shot up and run down now, probably filled with snakes too.”
we had found the remnants of the commercial jet outside greenwood, in the mississippi delta. a hundred miles from the nearest airport that could accommodate anything larger than a crop duster, there she sat in the middle of the field. bullet holes riddled the body and the window panes, few of which were still in place, shattered a long time ago. how it got there or where the wings had gone no one seemed to know. even mrs. gordon, late in her eighties, had trouble recalling any information about it.
if the mystery had not been enough, as we departed the gordons’ house she said”you know, there is another one just like it, about thirty miles down the road…”