The first person Clyde* helped get an abortion was a stranger. The text came in, urgent and last-minute: one passenger, 68 kilograms, Spanish speaker. Clyde was worried. Not about helping, but about the weather. It was July and hot, meaning pockets of volatile air and pop-up thunderstorms could jeopardise everything, or at least make for a rough ride. There were more than 500 kilometres to travel, one way, in a small four-seater plane. Not necessarily dangerous, but risky. To wait would mean a missed appointment at the clinic, though. That’s the rub when you have limited options.
OK, he texted, I’ll go.
The plan was to meet the woman at a small regional airfield the next day at 5am. Clyde would fly her from her home state, where abortion was illegal, to a state where it wasn’t.
Except she didn’t show. Clyde texted, asking where she was, confirming the directions and even sending a selfie so she could recognise him, even though there was no-one else around.
Eventually, after some back and forth, two headlights appeared in the thicket of darkness. From the corner of a parking lot, a car slowly drove forward, an older woman behind the wheel, staring straight ahead. Another woman in her early twenties got out, tucking a small cloth bag under her arm. She was nervous. Clyde could see it in the way she looked at the ground while approaching him, the way
