Chapter 2 Logan #3
Hillary is moving fast up and down the aisle—bins latched, bottles cleared—before dropping into the jump seat in the galley and buckling herself in.
I ignore her and focus on Rose, but the plane keeps shaking and dipping. I get an arm around her and guide her down into my seat, pull both ends of the belt across her lap and click them together. Then I climb past her into the window seat and buckle in.
The oxygen masks drop from the ceiling. Everything shakes, and it’s so loud I can’t think straight. My teeth rattle. I try to check on Rose, but the right wing of the plane lifts, and we tilt sideways, and I’m thrown against the window. The plane lurches, and she lets out a scream.
My fingers clutch my knees, and I take slow, measured breaths. There’s no need to panic, this type of thing happens all the time.
A sharp drop creates a weightless feeling in my gut, and then, despite my efforts, my heart starts racing.
“What the fuck is going on?” I shout toward Hillary. She wears a tight grimace, a panicked look on her face telling me she has no clue what’s happening.
The turbulence goes on for what feels like an hour, all the sensations compressed into what is likely only seconds.
“Everyone stay calm, stay seated. We are experiencing a mechanical malfunction.” A tense moment passes, then Henry’s voice crackles again. “Critical engine failure. We’re going to brace for an unsmooth landing. There’s an airstrip about four miles ahead. We should make it.”
Crackle. Then, “Brace for impact.”
I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. I’m going to die in an aircraft with her. Hillary yells, barely audible over the noise in the cabin, “Brace for impact! Seatbelts tight!”
Rose’s silence is disturbing. I stare at her frozen form, like she’s my anchor. Knuckle-gripping the seat, dark eyes wide, fixed on the ground in front of her. The color drains from her olive skin, rosy lips pale. I wish she’d scream again. It was better when she screamed.
The window shade is drawn open, and I make the mistake of looking outside.
The ground hurtles toward us, too fast. Henry said we were landing on an airstrip, but there are no towers—only farmland.
Grazing cows in the pasture, oblivious to our descent, rows of crops, and, as we lower closer to the ground, a massive red barn in the distance.
Rumbling from beneath the plane, like a car backfiring, whips my attention back inside.
I grasp my seatbelt tight, taking deep breaths.
There’s a sharp, vertical jolt. The plane tips again, and the pilot corrects, which sets us off course.
We land against the hard dirt drive with a heavy slam. I brace my arms against the table.
Rose’s small frame jerks violently with each bounce.
She makes no noise—none that I can hear—and we’re tossed around like the plane is on a fucking trampoline, my laptop flinging up into the air, my whiskey glass flying across the cabin.
My head snaps against the seat as we land hard, gravity claiming us back.
The careening pressure in my head as the plane attempts to slow, screeching over the makeshift landing strip, builds until my eardrums feel ready to pop.
The next few moments are loud and chaotic. My teeth chatter as the plane roughly evens out.
And then… it slows.
We veered off course but thankfully the brakes and steering work, and while we’ve likely ripped up some of this poor farmer’s land, we make it back onto the dirt drive.
And then we stop.
Rose is bleeding from her forehead, but she ignores it, frozen, like she’s in shock. I unbuckle, and on unsteady legs, climb over her.
“Everyone okay?” I call out, though my attention is fixed on Rose. “You hit your head. You’re bleeding.” I gingerly feel the skin around the cut.
She bats at me. “I’m fine.” Then she starts laughing. Nervous and shaky, the sound bubbles out of her in reedy bursts.
“You’re in shock.”
“You’re in shock!” she shrieks.
Grunting, not wanting to deal with her, I go and check on Hillary and Henry. Hillary stands on wobbly legs, while the cockpit door swings open with violent force.
“Everyone alright?” Henry shouts, louder than necessary considering it’s just the three of us back here.
“We’re okay. What the hell happened?”
Henry shakes his head. “Mechanical failure. I have a call out to the nearest tower. They know we landed safely, could be a while before we get any answers though.”
I turn back to Rose. Blood streams from a cut across her forehead, eyes unfocused and glassy. Everything slows down, my medical training taking over.
“First aid kit. Now!” I bark. Hillary scrambles backward, nearly tripping as she lunges for the emergency supplies. Henry shouts something about air traffic control as he heads back to the cockpit.
Rose tries to stand, swaying dangerously. I press my hands onto her shoulders. “Sit,” I command, forcing her back into the seat.
She slaps my hand away, but I ignore her and press my thumbs to her brows, making her open her eyes wide. Her pupils seem normally reactive. “Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”
“Oh my god, that’s a lot of blood,” Hillary rasps, dropping the first-aid kit on the table and backing away.
I dig through the kit until I find the gauze and press a folded square against the wound. Head wounds bleed like hell—I’m relieved to see it looks worse than it is.
“Hold this,” I tell Rose, and she listens. I pull out an antiseptic wipe and some butterfly bandages. “You might need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches. I’m fine.”
She’s arguing with a fucking cardiothoracic surgeon.
I take the gauze off the wound and wipe the cut with alcohol, leaning closer than necessary. My eyes involuntarily drop to her parted lips. She smells like coffee, cinnamon and cloves.
The door on the side of the plane opens with a whoosh. Henry exits, followed by Hillary. Distant yelling carries across the field—farmers discovering the plane in their backyard. Then it’s just us, alone in this confined space, her eyes locked on mine.
I hold the cut closed, my thumb grazing her temple. The butterfly strip stretches into place under my careful fingers. I linger, studying her flushed face. Her lips. “Anywhere else?”
She grumbles, “I’m fine,” and rises from her seat, swaying slightly. Our bodies align, my hands hover at her waist, ready to catch her if she falls. It takes me an extra second to step back.
We almost died. Rose almost died.
“You aren’t fine, we were just in a plane crash.”
“Forced landing,” she argues.
“I don’t think you have a concussion, but still best to get checked out. I imagine an ambulance will be here soon.”
“Like I said, I’m fine. I’m not going to the hospital over a little cut.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
Shoving me out of the way, she grabs her backpack and follows the sound of voices off the plane.