Eli could perform before two thousand people without fear, but he could not board an airplane without becoming certain that gravity had finally noticed him. This was inconvenient because he was a musician, and musicians are frequently invited to perform in places separated by great distances, oceans and promoters who believe Toronto and Vancouver are “basically the same country.” For years, Eli drove whenever possible. Through snowstorms, mountain passes or towns consisting of one gas station and a restaurant called Mom’s. He preferred seeing the country. This was true. He especially preferred seeing it attached firmly to the ground.

When flying became unavoidable, he developed rituals. He arrived three hours early. He checked the weather in every province. He studied the faces of the pilots, looking for signs of despair, or recent divorce. Once seated, he listened carefully to every mechanical sound. A small click meant engine failure. A large click meant more serious engine failure. Silence meant the engines had already fallen off.

One afternoon, Eli was booked to perform at a festival on an island. Driving was impossible unless he could persuade the rental car to become a submarine. He boarded the plane carrying a small keyboard and enough anxiety to power things independently. Beside him sat an elderly woman knitting a blue scarf. As the plane accelerated, Eli gripped the armrest.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“No,” he said, in the strained voice like someone being questioned by kidnappers.

“I am,” she said.

This surprised him. She seemed calm.

“What do you do about it?”

“I knit.”

“Does that stop you from being afraid?”

“No. It gives my hands something useful to do.”

The plane lifted. Eli felt the familiar plunge inside his stomach. He watched the woman knit. The needles clicked steadily through the turbulence. Click, click. Pause. Click, click. Pause. It was in three-four time. Without intending to, he began tapping the rhythm on his knee. Then he noticed the low drone of the engines. Somewhere above it was the soft rattle of the overhead compartments, the whisper of air through the vents and the occasional percussion of a beverage cart striking someone’s elbow. The airplane was not silent. The engines held the fundamental. The vents the upper harmonics. The knitting needles kept time. A child cried in new mode. Eli listened.

When the plane shook, his fear remained. But instead of asking what the shaking meant, he asked where it belonged in the music. There was no revelation in which he understood that death was an illusion or that aircraft maintenance is spiritually supervised. Still frightened. He simply discovered fear did not require obedience. He could be afraid and remain in his seat while the plane carried him forward. At the festival, Eli played a new piece. It began with a low continuous note, followed by small metallic clicks in three-four time. Then came bursts of turbulence, interrupted by a child’s melody and the rhythm of an imaginary beverage cart. Afterward, people told him the piece sounded fearless. It was not fearless. It was fear that learned to play it.