It had been simple. I lifted the armrest he’d claimed and laid my late husband’s old wool blanket across his seat. I set my knitting bag on the cushion, unrolled the half-finished baby blanket for my granddaughter, and arranged eleven balls of yarn in a neat little row from the headrest to the edge. Then I slipped off my shoes and stretched both feet into his legroom.

“You weren’t using the space,” I said sweetly. “So what’s the problem?” Someone two rows back snorted. A flight attendant hurried down the aisle as he reached for my yarn. Then the young woman across the aisle stood up and held out her phone. “Before you touch anything of hers,” she said, “you should know I’ve been recording you since takeoff.”