The fluorescent lights of the flight school hummed a low, anxious chord. Across the worn linoleum table, Chris stared at the grey, circular slide rule in his hands as if it were a live snake. The E6B flight computer. It wasn’t a computer in the modern sense—no screen, no batteries, no mercy. It was a disc of vengeance invented by someone who hated joy.

“That dot is your drift,” Sarah said softly, not helping, just narrating.

Sarah leaned back. “See? It’s not a monster. It’s a conversation. The wind tells you one thing, your airspeed tells you another, and the E6B just translates.”

He looked up, eyes wide. “12° left crab, 98 knots over the ground.”