Eli knew Mrs. Gable. She hadn’t left her cottage in three years. Her husband, a lighthouse keeper, had died at sea, and since then, she answered no calls, no knocks, no mail except the pension check she never cashed. But this pink envelope was different. It had a stamp from the National Weather Service and a handwritten note: “Final warning: the bluffs are eroding. You must evacuate by Friday.”

The next morning, someone had chalked a message on the post office wall:

“We’ve tried drones,” the mayor said. “They crash in the wind. We tried the young rangers—she won’t open the door. But you, Eli… she used to watch you fly. Back when you were the Sky Angel.”

You’re eighty years old , he told himself. Turn back.

But then he remembered: eighty wasn’t the end. Eighty was the number of his most important flight. Sky Angel 80 didn’t turn back.