The hours pass and I fight boredom. At 6:00 p.m., I stroll into the terminal, ask around, and meet one of the pilots, Devin. I turn on the charm and chat up Devin as if we’re old pals. I explain that my co-passenger, Nathan, is the subject of one of my films and we’re headed off for a few days of beach fun. I don’t know the kid that well. Devin asks for my passport, and I hand it over. Without being obvious, he checks my face with my photo, and all is well. I ask to take a look at the airplane.

Will, the other pilot, is in the cockpit reading a newspaper as I step onto a private jet for the first time in my life. I shake his hand like a politician and comment on the stunning display of screens, switches, instruments, dials, meters, and so on. Devin shows me around. Behind the cockpit is the small kitchen, or galley, complete with microwave, a sink with hot and cold water, full bar, drawers filled with china and flatware, and a large ice bin where the beer is just waiting. I specifically asked for two brands, one with alcohol and one without. Behind one door is a collection of snacks in case we get hungry. Dinner will not be served, because I do not want a flight attendant on board. The people at the charter service insisted that the aircraft’s owner required the use of a flight attendant, at which time I threatened to cancel. They backed down, so it will be just Nathan and me on the trip south.

The cabin is furnished with six large leather chairs and a small sofa. The decor is soft earth tones and very tasteful. The carpet is plush and spotless. There are at least three screens for movies and, as Devin goes on proudly, a surround sound system. We move from the cabin to the restroom, then the cargo hold. I’m traveling light and Devin takes my carry-on bag. I hesitate as if I’ve forgotten something. “I have a couple of DVDs in my bag and I might need them,” I explain. “Can I get to it during the flight?”

“Sure. No problem. The cargo hold is pressurized too, so you have access,” Devin says.

“Great.”

I spend half an hour examining the airplane, then begin looking at my watch as if I’m irritated at Nathan and his tardiness. “This kid’s from the mountains,” I explain to Devin as we sit in the cabin. “Doubt if he’s ever been on a plane before. He’s kinda rough around the edges.”

“What kind of movie ya’ll doing?” Devin asks.

“Documentary. The meth business in Appalachia.”

Devin and I return to the terminal and continue waiting. I’ve forgotten something in my car, and I leave the building. Minutes later, I see Nathan’s new pickup truck roll into the lot. He parks quickly, then hops out, eager. He’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, a pair of white Nike running shoes, no socks, a flat-billed trucker’s cap, and, best of all, a pink-and-orange floral-print Hawaiian shirt with at least the top two buttons unfastened. He grabs a stuffed Adidas gym bag from the back of his truck and bounds toward the terminal. I intercept him and we shake hands. I’m holding some papers.

“Sorry about the delay,” I say, “but the airplane is here and ready to go.”

“No problem.” His eyes are watery and I catch a whiff of stale beer. Wonderful!

I lead him inside and to the front desk where Devin is flirting with the receptionist. I walk Nathan to the windows and point to the Challenger. “That’s ours,” I say proudly. “At least for this weekend.” He gawks at the aircraft as Devin walks over. I quickly slip him Nathan’s fake passport. He glances at the photo, then at Nathan, who at that moment turns from the window. I introduce him to Devin, who hands me the passport and says, “Welcome aboard.”

“Are we ready to go?” I ask.

“Follow me,” Devin says, and as we leave the terminal, I say, “Off to the beach.”

On board, Devin takes the Adidas gym bag and stores it in cargo while Nathan falls into one of the leather chairs and admires his surroundings. I’m in the galley, preparing the first round of beers—the real thing for Nathan, one with no alcohol for me. When they’re poured into ice-cold mugs, you can’t tell the difference. I banter with Devin as he goes through the emergency procedures, nervous that he might mention our destination. He does not, and when he retires to the cockpit and straps himself in, I take a deep breath. He and Will give me the thumbs-up and start the engines.

“Cheers,” I say to Nathan, and we tap glasses and take a gulp. I unfold a mahogany table between us.

As the jet begins to taxi, I say, “You like tequila?”

“Hell yeah,” he replies, already the party animal.

I jump up, walk into the galley, fetch a fifth of Cuervo Gold and two shot glasses, and place them hard on the table. I pour two shots and we kill them, following them up with more beer. I have a buzz by the time we take off. When the seat belt sign is turned off, I pour another round of beer and we do more shots. Shots and beer, shots and beer. I fill in the conversation gaps with drivel about the film and how excited our financial partners are at the moment. This soon bores Nathan, so I tell him we have a late dinner lined up, and one of the young ladies there is a friend of a friend who could be the hottest chick on South Beach. She’s seen a portion of our footage and wants to meet Nathan. “Did you bring any long pants?” I ask.

I assume the Adidas bag is filled with clothing about as tasteful as what I’m looking at.

“Oh yeah, got all kinds of stuff,” he says, his tongue getting thicker by the moment.

When the Cuervo Gold is half gone, I look at the navigational map on display and say, “Only an hour to Miami. Drink up.” We knock back another shot each, then I drain my glass of unleaded. I weigh at least thirty pounds more than Nathan, half my drinks have no alcohol, and my vision is blurred as we pass over Savannah at thirty-eight thousand feet. He’s getting bombed.

I keep pouring, and he shows no signs of slacking off. As we pass high over my old stomping ground at Neptune Beach, I fix the final round. Into Nathan’s beer mug, I drop two tablets of chloral hydrate, five hundred milligrams each.

“Let’s kill these dead soldiers,” I say, slamming them onto the table, and we turn bottoms up. I take it easy and Nathan wins the contest. Thirty minutes later, he’s dead to the world.

I watch our progress on the screen next to the galley. We’re now at forty thousand. Miami is in sight, but we are not descending. I pull Nathan out of his chair and drag him to the sofa, where I stretch him out and check his pulse. I pour a cup of coffee and watch Miami fade below us.

Before long, Cuba is behind us too, and Jamaica emerges at the bottom of the screen. The engines throttle back a notch, and we begin our long descent. I gulp coffee in a desperate effort to clear my head. The next twenty minutes will be crucial and chaotic. I have a plan, but so much of it is beyond my control.

Nathan is breathing heavily and slowly. I shake him, but he’s unconscious. From the right pocket of his too-tight denim cutoffs, I remove his key ring. In addition to the one for his pickup, the collection includes six others of varying shapes and designs. I’m sure a couple fit the doors and dead bolts of his house. Perhaps a couple lock and unlock Bombay’s. In the left pocket, I find a neat fold of cash—about $500—and a pack of gum. From the left rear pocket I remove his wallet, a cheap vinyl Velcro tri-fold that’s sort of bulky. As I inventory it, I realize why. Our party boy had loaded up with eight Trojan condoms, stored at the ready on his left buttock. There are also ten crisp $100 bills, a valid Virginia driver’s license, two membership cards to Bombay’s, a business card for his parole officer, and one for a beer distributor. Nathan has no credit cards, probably because of his recent five-year stint in prison and his lack of a real job. I leave the cash in place, don’t touch the Trojans, and remove everything else. I substitute the fake driver’s license for the valid one and give Nathaniel Coley his wallet back. Then I gently place the fake passport in his right rear pocket. He doesn’t move or twitch, doesn’t feel a thing.