Departure(16)

At the fire, we settle in and watch the sun set over the lake. As it slips below the horizon, I start my interrogation—nonchalant, of course.

“Where you from, Nick?”

“All over. You?”

“I grew up in a small town in England, but I live in London now.”

“This feel like England to you?” He motions to the lake and forest around us.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Yeah, to me too.” He slumps over, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “I’m beat, Harper. See you in the morning.”

He’s asleep in seconds. I can’t help remembering Grayson Shaw’s last words to me. Tell your boyfriend to sleep with one eye open, Harper.

I settle in between him and the fire and stare up at the stars. Sleep won’t come tonight. I’ve slept too much today already, but that’s not really it. Truth be told, it’s been a long time since I’ve slept next to someone I fancied as much as Nick Stone.





10





I expected to wake up to helicopters, flashing lights, and waves of English first responders saying things like “Are you all right there?” and “Let’s have a look at you now.”

No such luck. The muddy beach by the blue-green lake looks exactly as it did last night: rings of people around a dying fire, wrapped up in navy blankets. Only a few are stirring, mumbling groggily to each other.

I get to my knees and lean over Harper, who’s curled toward the fire, sound asleep. I wouldn’t wake her for all the tea in China.

It’s been over thirty-six hours since we crashed. Someone should have been here by now.





At the nose section, it feels like déjà vu. Again there’s an angry mob, the second to mass here in as many days. Grayson Shaw is here too, but at least he’s not center stage this time. He’s sitting at the back, looking hung over and haggard. He must have finally run out of alcohol. But that could actually make him more dangerous.

The food in the nose section ran out last night, when I was too tired to notice. The crowd’s muttering about people hoarding food, calling for searches of the camp and redistribution. “I’d kill a man for a Diet Coke right now,” I hear a skinny man in a rumpled suit say. I’ll look up Coke stock if I live through this.

Jillian’s taking the brunt of the crowd’s ire. They’re chewing her out like this is simply a disruption to normal in-flight service. The truth is, she’s just another survivor now, but the uniform she’s wearing pegs her as the person who hands out food. She looks relieved to see me.

“Help,” she says, lunging for me and clamping both hands around my arm, pulling me up to stand beside her at the bottom of the makeshift stairway as she faces the crowd.

Bob Ward and Sabrina are here too. Their faces are solemn, but they nod, encouraging me.

The crowd quiets, people nudging each other and whispering.

That’s him.

Yeah, the guy from the lake.

“All right,” I say. “We’re going to get some food, but it’ll take some time.”

“We need something now!” a woman in a mud-stained sweater shouts.

“There isn’t anything right now, okay? Look, we have to work together here. If we work together, we’ll all eat—otherwise, we could all starve.”

The word starve is a mistake. The crowd picks it up, and it echoes from person to person in panicky counterpoint until it sounds like the Starve Chorus. It takes me a few minutes to unsay it and get their focus again.

“So how we gonna get food?” asks an overweight man with a thick New York accent.

How indeed? I hadn’t gotten that far. I can see where this is going. If I let group-think take over and devil’s advocates call the shots, we’ll still be standing here at sundown, hungry and undecided. I need a plan, right now.

Aside from the unthinkable, there are only two logical sources of food: the other half of the plane and fish from the lake. We might manage to kill something here on land, but with a hundred mouths to feed, it likely won’t go far. Unless . . . there’s a farm nearby. It’s a long shot, but I tuck the idea away for future use.

“Okay, first step,” I say as authoritatively as I can. “We’re going to take an inventory.”

“Inventory?”

“Yes.” I point to Jillian—poor Jillian—and Bob Ward, who straightens up and puts on his ultra-serious camp counselor face for the crowd. He at least is loving this. “Jillian and Bob are going to come around and ask you what was in your carry-on and checked baggage and what your seat was—or, more importantly, what overhead bin your bag was in. Describe anything that might be of use out here, especially food. Come see me right now if you had any fishing or diving gear in your luggage—a wetsuit, even snorkeling gear.”

A bloated guy in his forties laughs, turning to the crowd. “Hey, Jack, folks don’t do much snorkeling in New York in November.” That gets a few laughs, and he grins at me, waiting.

I know this guy’s type, and I’d love to stick it to him, but I can’t afford to make another enemy. I opt for the high road.

“That’s true. I’m thinking about people making a connection, passengers departing from the Caribbean, somebody diving on vacation, making their way home. JFK is a major hub for international destinations. Nassau to JFK to Heathrow isn’t out of the question. Or maybe someone on their way to the Mediterranean via Heathrow. I thought maybe we could get lucky.”