The flight from Dallas to New York had just started boarding when the tension began. Naomi Carter, a thirty-two-year-old marketing manager, walked down the narrow jet bridge with her carry-on slung over one shoulder. She had chosen a window seat near the front—12A— since she had a connecting meeting scheduled almost immediately after landing. Getting off quickly was very important.

When she slid into her seat, pulling out a book, a tall blonde woman in her late thirties appeared, her young son trailing behind her.

“Excuse me,” the woman said. “You’re in my seat.”

Naomi glanced up calmly. “I don’t think so. This is 12A. It’s on my ticket.” She held it up to show the boarding pass.