Somewhere over Mississippi,
                I break in.

Not into the plane—
    no masked theatrics,
    just a quiet backdoor
    to an archaic system,

    a vulnerability no one’s patched.

A few keystrokes,
       a reroute,

       a new destination logged.

She’s mid-sip,
    enjoying her ginger ale,
    watching the world drift by
                at 30,000 feet,

    The Big Easy on her mind.

Then the announcement:
    "Attention passengers:
    due to an unexpected navigation adjustment,
    this flight will not be landing in New Orleans.

    We are (somehow?) now en route to Puerto Vallarta."

A pause.

A slow turn of her head.

A raised brow.

A smirk—
        half amused,
        half impressed.

I imagine the exact moment
              she realizes.

Shakes her head,
    takes another sip,
    leans back—

    "Let's see where this goes."

"Fine," she’ll think,
    watching the Gulf unfold below,

    "but he owes me beignets."

And here I’ll be,
    on this side of the hack,
    waiting at the gate…

    powdered sugar in hand.