Nothing. We’ve tried noise. We’ve tried going through the first-class lavatory. We’ve been down to the ground, where the nose is dug in now—it settled some last night—and peered through the windshield in the few places where it isn’t too heavily cracked. They’re in there, three pilots, none moving. We can’t tell if they’re breathing. The five of us—Bob, the three swimmers from the lake, and me—have been at it for hours, and I’m exhausted.
“I’ve gotta take a break, fellas,” I say. “Heading to the lake. Grab me if you get through.”
“You could rest here, Nick,” Bob calls, but I’m down the makeshift stairway and hiking away before he can stop me. The truth is, I want to see Harper. It’s past midday, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. I ignore a few more calls from Bob as I disappear into the dense forest. He’s not one for letting things go.
On the walk back to the lake, I think about why we haven’t seen any rescue personnel. Even if we’ve crashed in some remote part of England, surely the fire would show up on satellites, or helicopters could spot the column of smoke. I won’t worry until tomorrow morning, I decide. Not much I can do anyway. Survivors—I’ll focus on them. Warmth, food, and medical care could make all the difference for a few folks.
To my right I hear branches snapping. I turn to see 2D—Grayson Shaw—twelve feet away, holding a stick the size of a bat. He grins at me, revealing blood-covered teeth.
I’m unarmed, too sore to run, and probably too tired to fight. This should be interesting.
8
Last night I gave birth to a rhinoceros. Not just any rhino, mind you: a pregnant rhino, with twins. And three horns. Lots of horns. I birthed a double-pregnant, triple-horned rhino. That’s what it feels like, at least.
I’m glad I’m breathing, but I still dislike the pain every breath brings. I’m going to lie here until it doesn’t hurt anymore. Looking on the bright side, I’m bound to lose some weight during this period. I have no appetite and can’t imagine the pain eating will entail.
Surely I’ll emerge from my swaddled fireside solitude slimmer, funnier, and completely healed; a phoenix rising from the ashes, ready to soar high above the lake, roar in a screeching call of freedom and awesomeness before I retake my pitiful life.
Doctor’s been by. She’s a good bit sterner than I remember her last night. Dry, to the point, bit of a bore, really. Though her bedside manner needs some work, she seems to know her stuff. And she’s filled me in. She fed me some pain pills after I came out of the water last night. I don’t remember it, but she says they may have resulted in bizarre dreams and foggy thinking. (I neglected to mention the rhino and phoenix visions, neither of which seems strictly medically relevant.)
The doctor’s most concerned about my leg, which apparently has a nasty gash from where it was caught in the plane. She’s bandaged it up and wants to keep an eye on it.
About all I can recall from last night is the euphoria of saving those people, the children especially, the ones I carried myself. Then the cold, and Nick’s arms pulling me, and nothing much after that.
Awoke feeling even worse. Pain meds must have worn off completely now. Nick sent some food, but I couldn’t eat it, so I gave it away. Must sleep.
A few minutes ago I spotted a kid walking past the fire, an Indian girl around twelve wearing a Disney World T-shirt.
That made me feel good enough to stand up and take a walk. My right leg is dodgy, sending spikes of pain through my body with every step, but it becomes manageable after a few paces.
It’s not as cold during the day, but overall, standing hurts a lot more than lying down.
What to do? Most people are huddled together, not talking. A few are dragging branches and wood in from the forest, feeding the dying fire. That seems as good an idea as any.
About a hundred feet into the woods, I hear a voice, one I know. One I detest.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be like this,” Grayson says in his usual hateful, condescending tone. “I’m going to hurt you when you least expect it.”
“I’m not expecting it now.” Nick sounds calm.
I walk closer, just far enough to make both of them out. Nick looks exhausted. Black bags hang under his eyes, which are hard, much more so than I remember. Grayson holds a large stick at his side. His back’s to me, so I can’t see his face.
I inch closer, and a branch pops under my foot. I look up to find both their eyes upon me.
“Jesus, you’re like a virus,” Grayson says. “You just won’t go away.” He waits, but I don’t speak. “I bet you’re loving this. Best thing that could’ve happened to you, isn’t it?”
Nick looks right at me, ignoring him. “You all right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, for the love of god. Please excuse me while I go throw up until I die.” Grayson marches past me. “Tell your boyfriend to sleep with one eye open, Harper.”
A few seconds later I hear him pitch the stick into the fire.
Nick stands before me now, his face serious and tense. I wonder what’s happened.
“I put you up to it last night,” he says. “Going into that plane.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. If something had happened to you—”
“Listen, if I had it to do over again, I would do the exact same thing, even if I hadn’t woken up this morning, curled up by the fire. I’ve seen them, a few of the kids I hauled out of that plane. The risk was well worth it. To me, it was all well worth it.”
He nods, glances at the ground. His face is still solemn, but I can feel the tension flowing out of him, as if it were a wall of air brushing past me. “Where does it hurt?” he asks.
“Everywhere. My whole bloody body.”
He smiles and exhales, laughing for the first time. “Me too.”
He fills me in as we trek back to the fire, gathering loose branches as we go. Nobody’s cell phone works, which is strange, but not out of the question in rural England. He’s tried to get into the cockpit with no luck. He figures the pilots are dead; he’s had a look at the cockpit and it’s pretty tight, would have been deadly during the crash. Poor souls.
At the fire, I insist he take one of my blankets, and after a bout of protests, he relents. We sit in silence for a while. I’m dying to ask him what he does for a living, where he’s from, anything. I want to know what Nick Stone is like, you know, when he’s not rescuing plane crash survivors from an icy lake. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He seems to have been delivered to Planet Earth from some other place, some place where normal human weaknesses and shortcomings don’t apply.
I’m about to launch into my first lame question, which I’ve rehearsed in my mind nine times now, when someone runs up to us, almost colliding with Nick.
It’s Mike, the guy with the green Celtics T-shirt. He focuses on Nick, speaking between pants. “We’re . . . in.”