Last Flight of the Day

The sun was getting low and orange, painting the sky the color of marmalade, when Harriet pulled her goggles down over her eyes and climbed into the cockpit of her little plane.

Her plane was called Bumblebee. Not because it was yellow — though it was, bright as a dandelion — but because of the sound it made. When Harriet turned the propeller on, it went bmmmmmmmmm, just like a fat, happy bumblebee flying through a garden.

Every evening, just before the sky turned pink, Harriet flew the last mail run of the day. She carried letters and packages from the town post office all the way out to the farms and houses scattered across the wide, green valley. No other pilot wanted the late run. They said it was boring. They said there was nothing to see.

But Harriet knew better.

She knew everything to see.

"Alright, Bumblebee," she said, patting the side of the cockpit. "Let's go say goodnight."

The engine hummed. The propeller spun. And Bumblebee rolled down the bumpy grass runway, bounced once, bounced twice, and lifted into the air like a leaf caught in a breeze.

Below her, the valley spread out wide and golden in the evening light. And Harriet smiled, because from up here, she knew every single farm by its roof.

First came the Gutierrez farm, with its bright red barn roof that had one corner patched with tin. When the sun hit that tin patch just right, it flashed like a star on the ground. Harriet dipped her wing and dropped a small package into the Gutierrez landing basket — a wooden crate with a flag on it, sitting at the end of their driveway.

Thump.

"Right on target," Harriet whispered.

She could see little Sofia Gutierrez running out from behind the barn, her two brown braids flying behind her, racing to grab the package. Sofia looked up and waved with both hands, jumping up and down.

Harriet wiggled Bumblebee's wings. That was pilot language for hello.

Next came the Olesson farm. Their roof was green — not painted green, but actually green, because Mr. Olesson had let moss grow all over it. "Keeps the house cool," he always said. From the air, it looked like a little hill with windows.

Harriet dropped two letters into the Olesson basket. She could see Mr. Olesson sitting on his porch in his big wooden chair, his orange cat sleeping on his lap. He raised one hand slowly, the way he always did, like he had all the time in the world.

Harriet wiggled her wings.

Then came the wide, flat stretch of sunflower fields — thousands and thousands of sunflowers, all turning their faces toward the setting sun. Harriet flew low over them, and the propeller wind made them sway and dance like they were cheering for her.

She laughed. She always laughed over the sunflowers.

After the sunflowers came the tricky part — the Beekman farm, way up on the hill where the wind got bumpy. Their roof was blue with white polka dots because the Beekman kids had painted it last summer. "So you can find us easier!" they had told Harriet.

And she could. She always could.

She dropped a thick envelope into their basket, and three Beekman kids spilled out the front door, arguing about who would carry it inside. The littlest one grabbed it first and ran, and Harriet could hear their squealing even over Bumblebee's engine.

She wiggled her wings twice for the Beekmans. They had earned it.

Now the sky was turning from orange to deep, dusty purple. The air was cooler up here. Harriet pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and checked her mail bag.

One package left.

It was small. Wrapped in brown paper. Addressed to the Tanaka farm.

The Tanaka farm was the farthest one out, right at the very edge of the valley where the fields met the dark line of the forest. It was a long way to go for one small package. Some pilots skipped it when they had only one item. "Just deliver it tomorrow," they said. "It's too far. It's getting dark."

But Harriet thought about old Mrs. Tanaka, who lived alone with her three goats and a vegetable garden that grew the biggest tomatoes anyone had ever seen. She thought about how Mrs. Tanaka always set out a lantern by her mail basket when she was expecting something. And how she always left a little paper bag of roasted peanuts in the basket for Harriet, even though Harriet had told her a hundred times she didn't need to.

Harriet pointed Bumblebee's nose toward the edge of the valley.

The shadows were getting long now. The farms below looked like little toy houses in the purple light. Harriet could see the forest ahead, dark and tall, and just before it — there. The Tanaka farmhouse, with its plain gray roof and the garden stretching out behind it like a patchwork quilt.

And there, glowing soft and warm by the driveway, was the lantern.

Harriet smiled so big her cheeks pushed up against her goggles.

She brought Bumblebee down low, lined up her drop, and let the little brown package fall.

Thump. Right into the basket.

Mrs. Tanaka came out the front door, wrapped in her big blue shawl. She picked up the package and held it to her chest. Then she looked up at Bumblebee, put her hand over her heart, and bowed her head — just slightly, just enough for Harriet to see.

Harriet wiggled her wings. Nice and slow.

As she pulled Bumblebee up and banked back toward town, she looked down one more time. Mrs. Tanaka was walking back to her door. She stopped, turned around, and held the package up in the light of the lantern. Even from the air, Harriet could see the old woman's shoulders shaking — not from cold, but from something warm.

Mrs. Tanaka was laughing. Or maybe crying happy tears. Sometimes those look the same from far away.

Harriet turned toward home.

The sky was deep blue now, almost night, with the first stars beginning to poke through like tiny holes in dark fabric. Bumblebee hummed along steadily, and below, one by one, the farmhouse windows glowed to life — yellow squares of light dotting the dark valley, each one a family settling in for the evening.

She knew every single one.

The red roof with the tin patch. The mossy green hill with windows. The blue roof with white polka dots. The plain gray roof next to the enormous garden.

Every roof was a home. And every home was a person who looked up when they heard Bumblebee's hum.

Harriet landed softly on the grass runway just as the last bit of purple faded from the sky. She cut the engine, and everything went quiet — that big, peaceful, end-of-the-day quiet that feels like the whole world is taking a deep breath.

She climbed out of the cockpit, pulled off her goggles, and patted Bumblebee on the nose.

"Good run," she said.

Then she reached into her jacket pocket and felt something — a small paper bag. She peeked inside.

Roasted peanuts.

She had scooped them from the Tanaka basket on last week's run and tucked them away for just the right moment.

Harriet leaned against Bumblebee's wing, eating peanuts one by one, watching the stars fill up the sky over the valley.

Tomorrow, the other pilots would fly the busy morning runs, carrying big stacks of mail in bright daylight with the sun high overhead.

But Harriet would wait.

She always waited for the last flight of the day.