Departure(22)

Sabrina’s looking at me, waiting.

I have a plethora of shortcomings. But if you ask any of my friends what single fault most holds me back in life, they’ll all tell you the same thing: decisions. Especially about my own well-being. Career decisions. Dating decisions. Where to live. Where to work. When it comes to making calls about my own future, I’m the worst. At least I’m quite capable of picking out an outfit and settling on where to eat (I sometimes find it helpful to state some positives about myself when facing a challenge).

My first instinct now is to panic, and panic about my panicking, until I suffer a full-blown breakdown. I mean, no pressure: what I say will only determine whether I lose life and/or limb or whether some cute kid down the aisle does. But as the seconds tick by, the panic never comes, only a clear, confident answer that fills me with a reflective calm. No second-guessing, no anguish. Weird. I’ll have to sort that out later, when a neurotic yet seemingly competent doctor isn’t crouching next to my rotting leg.

“I agree with you, Sabrina. Other people need the antibiotics more. When Nick comes back, I’ll tell him that you offered, and I refused.”

“Thank you.” Sabrina exhales and sits back against the galley wall, looking even more exhausted than before. I think this conversation was very hard for her.

I have to say, right now, what I’d really like is to be certain that Dr. Sabrina knows her stuff. I want to know that she sees my kind of injury quite regularly, that she’s remedied this sort of thing a hundred times.

I take a deep breath. “What sort of doctor are you, Sabrina?”

She hesitates.

“You see a lot of infections? Trauma? Do a good bit of wound care?” I prod, getting more nervous with each word.

“Not routinely . . .”

“Right. Well, then. What do you do routinely?”

“I work in a lab.”

Blimey.

“But I had extensive experience with trauma medicine during my medical school training.”

Blimey, blimey, double, triple, quadruple blimey. You know what I remember from university? Very. Very. Little. I nod as if she’s just related today’s weather forecast and tell myself that Sabrina Whatever Her Last Name Is just happens to be the number-one trauma surgeon in this makeshift hospital wing, that she is the very best medical care available at the present moment. Must have confidence in her.

She begins peeling away the white tape at the edge of the bandage. “Are you ready to begin?”

Who could say no to that? I mean, she works in a lab.





Medieval. That’s how I would describe what just transpired here in seat 1D of the crashed remains of Flight 305. Medieval in the extreme. I’ve heard people say the treatment was worse than the disease, and now I know full well what they were talking about.

Pain courses through my body, a fire hose I can’t shut off.

It’s amazing how exhausting pain is. Sabrina says I need to move every so often to keep some blood circulating, but I just can’t right now.

In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll walk away from this place at all.





13





It’s late afternoon when I wake up, drenched and achy. I feel sick all over, but I know I need to move, get some blood circulating. I think I can make a lap around the cabin. Or hospital. Whatever this is now. I push myself up, balance for a moment, testing the leg, and then start out down the dimly lit aisle. Passengers are crammed into every seat, most asleep or passed out. A few follow me with their eyes, but on the whole there’s very little movement or sound. It’s eerie, almost like the moment right after the crash.

I get ten paces before I’m winded and have to lean against a seat in business class, panting, and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

A kid in the seat to my right slowly opens his eyes. I’ve seen him before, I realize. He was the last kid Mike and I pulled off the sinking plane. I unbuckled his seat belt, and Mike carried him out. He’s black, about eleven, I would guess—and he’s at death’s door. He’s sweating, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes my heart sink.

“What you in for?” he asks, trying and failing to form a grin.

I shuffle forward and slip into the business-class seat across the aisle. “Bum leg. You?”

“Pneumonia.” He coughs into his hand and lets his head fall back.

Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then Sabrina is leaning over him, a single oblong white pill in her outstretched hand, a bottle of water—no doubt from the lake, boiled by the fire—in the other. “Antibiotics,” she whispers. “Quickly, please.”

He swallows the pill, and Sabrina’s eyes meet mine. I give her a single slow nod, wondering how well she’ll understand. She nods back.

The last of the antibiotics could buy enough time to save this kid’s life. Maybe a few others. I felt pretty sure before, but I’m certain now: I made the right decision.

“You’re British?” the kid asks.

“Yeah.”

“I like your accent.”

“I like yours.” He’s American, from the North, at a guess. “Where you from?”

“Brooklyn.”

“I wouldn’t mind living in Brooklyn.”

“Kidding, right?”