Wind Shear

“What are you doing?” Mary gasped, tugging open the window. The cars in the street below were honking.

“We’re flying,” said Dad, as though this were self-evident, which it was. He flapped hard to keep aloft in the wind shear.

“Hovering, actually,” Mom put in. She never could resist that sort of thing.

“It’s really pretty simple,” said Dad. “Like learning to walk.”

“Where did you learn how to fly!?”

Dad flushed and glanced away. “Well, everyone knows. They’ve been very good about keeping it a secret, actually. You know how clumsy you are; we were worried you’d hurt yourself.”