Departure(23)

“Nope. Brooklyn’s a good place for writers.”

“You a writer?”

“Yep.”

“Like a journalist?”

“I was. I write books now.”

“What kind?”

“Biographies.”

“You like it?”

“I liked it at first.”

He’s racked by coughs again. Finally the fit passes, and he closes his eyes. Just when I think he’s slipping off to sleep, he asks, “You famous?”

“Nah. But I interview famous people. I just write the book, and it gets published under their names.”

“Like they wrote it?”

“Yep.”

“That sucks.”

Leave it to a kid to sum up the state of my career so accurately in two words. And leave it to an adult to rationalize it in three: “It’s a living.”

“Ever think about doing something else?”

“I have. A lot, lately.”

“My mom reads a lot of books. Biographies especially. Says it helps with her work.”

“Yeah. What sort of work does your mum do?”

“Lawyer. She’s with me on the trip. Can’t find her, though. Lot of people are still missing from the crash.”

I nod, though I know he can’t see me. I can’t find the words. I remember the seconds before I first saw this kid, remember touching the cold flesh of the woman’s neck beside him before reaching for his neck, feeling the warmth, and ripping his seat belt free. God bless the person with the presence of mind to tell him people are still missing. “Well, she’s no doubt very, very proud of you for being so brave.”

A silence follows. I’m about to get up when he speaks again. “I’m Nate.”

“Harper. You should get your rest, Nate.” He’s asleep before I finish the sentence. All of a sudden I feel exhausted myself, too tired to even get up.





I awake to the clatter of rain pelting the plane, so loud it sounds like hail.

The fever’s back, stronger than ever.

Nate is sleeping right through the storm, his head hanging awkwardly to one side in a way that scares me.

Struggling to my feet, I reach across the aisle. My hand almost recoils when it meets his burning flesh. He’s in trouble.

I look around, searching for Sabrina, with no luck. I shuffle forward to first class, but she’s not there either. I collapse into my seat, a wave of pain shooting through my body. Where is she? I’ll rest just a minute, then go find her.

Only the faintest light filters through the tiny oval windows. I can’t tell if it’s after sunset or just dark because of the storm. The dense canopy blots out most of the daylight even in good weather.

As I sit, the rain’s cadence increases by the second, like a sound track slowly being turned up. A long howl of wind joins the tapping, its hollow sucking sound growing louder, overtaking the rain. It feels like I’m sitting in a wind tunnel with a hailstorm outside.

At the rear of the plane, the gust finally bowls the stacked luggage over, sending sick passengers scrambling.

I close my eyes. The relentless tapping on the metal roof is disorienting, a kind of white noise. Time jumps forward again.

When I open my eyes, Sabrina is hovering over me.

I clear my throat, but my voice comes out scratchy and faint. “Nate. The kid in business—”

“I’m doing what I can for him.” She motions to my leg. “I need to have a look.”

She’s tired. Gone is the poker face she’s worn for days. I can read the gravity of the situation on her face, even before the words spill mechanically out of her mouth.

“We need to move to the next phase of treatment. We have two options: be conservative, remove less flesh, or aggressive, which has a higher chance of stopping the infection. Being conservative now may mean taking more of the leg later if the procedure is unsuccessful. However, taking more flesh than necessary now will have lasting consequences after rescue. There are risks and benefits to both courses of action. You need to decide. You have fifteen minutes to think about it, while I make the rounds and prepare.”

She leaves, and I slump back into the chair. Decisions. My nemesis.

Minutes pass like hours. Vanity or survival? Is there even a chance of survival now?

Through my fever haze, I’m barely able to follow what happens next. The outer door flies open, and people pour in, survivors from the lakeside. The first is hurt, covered in blood. What happened? A lightning strike? A fallen tree?

One by one, more people limp in, some bleeding, some coughing, others hobbling along for no apparent reason. Unharmed survivors guide them, shouting for help.

They’re looking for Sabrina frantically, but they can’t find her. She has to be here—I just saw her, and the exit’s been closed the entire time. Did I pass out again? I don’t think so.

There’s only one place she can be: the cockpit. I try to tell them, but my voice is so weak that I can’t even hear it myself over the storm and the commotion. I reach for a man rushing by, but he brushes past, ignoring me.

Finally I rise and limp toward the cockpit, steadying myself on the galley wall. I’m about to knock on the closed steel door when I hear voices, faint but combative, inside.

“I want to know everything you know.” Sabrina.