Leo pressed his nose against the cool window glass. Three silver planes sliced across the blue sky. Their engines hummed a low rumble he could feel through the pane.
He scrambled off his bed and traced each plane's path with his finger, whispering, "One day, that's gonna be me up there."
Leo spent the whole morning building his own plane. First he tried a crumpled sheet of notebook paper — it nosedived straight into the rug.
Then a flat rectangle that wobbled and spun in tight circles before crashing down. Finally, a thick cardboard box dropped like a stone — right onto his toe.
Mom came home and found him sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of failed planes. She sat down beside him with a warm smile.
She pulled a fresh white sheet from her bag and folded it quickly — sharp creases, clean lines. She handed him the plane with a grin. "Try this one, pilot."
Leo pointed it toward the window, drew his arm back, and launched it. The paper plane caught the breeze and glided straight and true across the room.
His eyes went wide as the plane banks left, then loops upward toward the ceiling fan. It hangs for one breathless second before continuing out the window.
The paper plane slipped through the open window and disappeared into the sky. Mom clapped once, twice, three times. Leo grabbed her hand and bounced up and down until they were both laughing.
Outside the window, the sky was already full of new planes — silver and white, climbing higher and higher toward the clouds.
