Departure(11)

“What do you think we should have done—nothing? Watched? Paddled out and told them we’d love to help but we can’t, doctor’s orders?”

“No. That is not what I meant to say. I only wanted to point out that her precarious physical state before the excess exertion and oxygen deprivation may have exacerbated any preexisting injuries, making a precise diagnosis more difficult.”

“Right. Well, since you put it that way . . .” I take a deep breath and rub my temples, trying to soothe my pounding head. Sabrina probably saved dozens of lives last night, and from the looks of it, she hasn’t slept herself. “Look, I feel like hell, and I’m sort of second-guessing the decisions I made last night.”

“The fault is likely mine. I’m well outside my comfort zone here.”

“Right. You could . . . work on the bedside manner a bit.”

“I don’t visit bedsides.”

“I gathered that. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

She turns and steps away from the fire. “I think you should get something to eat and rest.”

“Sandwich and a nap. Sounds good to me.” Searching the distance along the shore, I listen, but I don’t see or hear anything. “So where’s the cavalry?”

“Cavalry?”

“You know—helicopters, emergency personnel. They have to be here by now.”

“I haven’t seen anyone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

Human interaction just isn’t Sabrina’s bag, which is probably why she’s not a practicing physician, whatever that means. But that’s not the biggest mystery at the moment.

Maybe the rescue teams are camped out at the nose section. The plane crashed almost twelve hours ago—they have to be here by now. In the confusion last night, I left my cell phone in my pocket. I verify what I already knew: it’s dead and not coming back.

“I’m gonna check the other section, get some food. Want anything?”

“Yes, please. A half-liter bottle of water and a full meal, ideally a thousand calories—fifty percent carbohydrates, thirty percent protein, and the remaining twenty percent fat. Preferably unprocessed with minimal additives.”

“Great.”

“I can add further parameters if it would be helpful.”

“Nope, nope, I’ve got what I need. Be back.”

I trudge through the woods, following the path Harper and I ran last night. She was already winded then. I should have known better—I should never have asked her to join me and the guys in the plane. I looked back at her when I called for volunteers, practically without thinking. After the speech I gave, that was twisting her arm, putting her on the spot in front of everyone. Whatever happens to her, it’s my fault. Guilt presses on my shoulders like the weight of the world, dragging me down.

Ahead, I hear shouts. Two dozen people are crowded around the gray emergency chute that leads up to the door just right of the cockpit.

“It’s our food!”

I know that voice—the drunken jerk in 2D. He’s standing at the bottom of the chute, shouting and pushing people.

“We paid for it.” He jabs his finger toward the face of the man in front of him. “Our tickets paid for the food in first and business classes. Eat the food you paid for in economy. I hear it’s back at the lake.”

I don’t give much thought to what I do next. It’s nice to have an easy decision.

I push through the crowd without a word.

“You,” 2D says, snorting, before I punch him in the face as hard as I can.

He falls straight back into the chute, bounces up halfway, and lands again awkwardly. Then he’s pushing up, lunging at me, throwing a fist at least two feet short. I catch him with another shot to the face, and he flies back, at an angle this time, rolling off the edge of the chute onto the ground.

Every movement hurts, but god, it feels so good. That’s the first time I’ve hit someone since I was ten. I hope it’ll be the last punch I ever throw—but it’s worth it. Easily.

From the ground, 2D’s eyes are daggers. “I’ll have you arrested for assault when this is over!”

“Really? How?”

“I’ve got two dozen witnesses.”

“Do you?” I glance back at the crowd, who are all smiles, some shaking their heads.

“And I’ve got proof,” 2D says, pointing to his bloody face.

“Of what? Being in an airplane crash?”

I turn to Jillian, whose eyes are wide. “How much food is left?”

“Some. I’m not sure.”

“Start bringing it out. Take two people to help you.”

The mob swells forward, but I hold up my hands. “Wait. We need to stay down here. The plane could be unstable. Let Jillian bring the food out, and we’ll divide it evenly, okay?”

There’s some grumbling but no real pushback. After all, I just punched some random guy in the face, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Behind me, Jillian is struggling up the chute with the help of two guys. It seems a waste to build a stairway when we’ll be rescued soon, but someone’s likely to get hurt if we don’t. I walk over and talk with the three of them about what we might use, everything from luggage to the serving carts. We agree that that will be the next priority, after breakfast is served.