The flight was supposed to be silent. I’m travelling to Phoenix with my daughter, Reyna, to see my sister. I had packed food, downloaded a few videos on the iPad, and even took her unicorn plushie, which she cannot sleep without.

We boarded early and took our seats—me near the window and Reyna in the centre. I had just begun fading out, staring at the tarmac, when I realised she was no longer alongside me. I turned my head to see her, crammed in next to a man across the aisle, staring up at him as if she recognised him.

“Reyna,” I murmured, attempting to keep my voice quiet.

“Come back here, baby.” She turned to me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on a four-year-old, and stated, “No, I want to sit with Grandpa.”

I laughed awkwardly. “Sweetie, it is not Grandpa.”

“The man seemed as perplexed as I was. “I apologise,” he replied, staring between us. “I had never met her before.”

But Reyna did not move. She grasped the man’s arm with both hands and leaned forward, as if she were protecting him.

“She recognises me,” she claimed. “You are Grandpa Mike.”