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?”
“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.