The flight from Atlanta to New York was supposed to be terrible. Passengers scrolled through their phones, adjusted their seats, or ordered drinks without saying a word. But in row 32, a twelve-year-old girl named Mara Johoso sat silently, clutching her faded backpack as if it were her lifeline. Her shoes were torn, her clothes were frayed, and her eyes were heavy with grief. She was traveling after the death of her mother, heading to Brooklyn to live with someone she barely knew.
At the front of the airport, in first class, sat Richard Colema, a billionaire real estate mogul with a reputation as cold as the skyscrapers he built. He was known in the press as “The Cold One,” a tycoon who always smiled, always forgave, and never wasted a moment as long as it paid off for him. He was flying to New York for an important meeting with investors who could transfer billions of dollars.
Mid-flight, the silence was broken. Richard clutched his chest and collapsed into his seat. Panic filled the cabin. A flight attendant shouted, “Is there a doctor on board?” But they both moved. Eyes wary, frozen, and passengers whispered fearfully.
Then, against all odds, Mara stood firm. Her heart pounded, but memories of her mother teaching her CPR came flooding back. She pushed past her shocked friends and went to Richard.
“Put him down!” she ordered, her voice soft and shaky but firm. She tilted his head back, clasped her hands together, and began chest compressions. “Oe, two, three…” Her voice was steady, her breathing even. The passengers watched in disbelief as this little girl fought for a billionaire’s life.
The girl’s eyes widened like a rocking horse, Richard gasped, his chest heaving. His expression gradually returned to normal. The entire stadium erupted in applause. Mara fell back in her seat, shaking, as whispers spread through the cabin: A poor little girl just saved a billionaire’s life.
As the flight reached New York, Richard was taken off the stretcher. Amid the chaos, his eyes met Mara’s. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear what he said over the noise. She guessed it was a weak “thank you,” and then let it go.
The next night, Mara sat outside LaGardia Airport, walking away. She never showed up. She had too much to do, too much to do, and nowhere to go. Years passed, and someone scratched her stomach. She clutched her backpack, trying not to cry.
