Departure

Trouble in paradise. As far as I can tell, there are only two unhappy inhabitants of First Class, Pop. 10. I call this pocket of unrest the Aisle of Brooding and Snide Remarks. Its thirtysomething residents have been waging a drinking and sarcasm contest since takeoff. I know one of them, the individual currently pressing his drink request, and I know what’s eating him because I’m involved in it. His name is Grayson Shaw, and I’ve made every effort to avoid him.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Grayson yells.

A thin, dark-haired flight attendant whose name tag reads JILLIAN pokes her head out of the galley and smiles weakly. “Sir, the captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belts sign and suspended drink—”

“For God’s sake, just throw me two mini bottles. We’re like eight feet apart.”

“Ignore him, Jillian,” the other brooder says. “Two mini bottles won’t fix his problem.”

“Thanks, random guy in 2A. Really insightful.”

Grayson jumps up as another wave of turbulence rocks the plane. I feel him pulling on the back of my headrest as he wades forward. His long blond hair falls around his face, hiding me from his view, and I’m glad for that. He stops in front of my first-row seat, at the entrance to the galley.

“Okay, it’s not that hard. You’re a cocktail waitress in the sky. Now hand me the bottles.”

Jillian’s put-on smile recedes. She reaches for something, but the plane phone rings, and she grabs it instead.

Grayson massages his temple and turns to the side. His eyes meet mine. “You. Jesus, this flight keeps getting worse.”

He’s about to launch into me, but the other brooder is here now, standing uncomfortably close to Grayson. He’s quite handsome, his dark hair short, his face lean, his eyes unflinching.

Grayson stares at him for a second, then cocks his head. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, I came up here to help you.”

Normally I don’t go in for this sort of macho stuff … but I have to say, I like the hero from 2A. There’s at once something mysterious and familiar about him.

Grayson opens his mouth to respond, but he never gets a chance. The boom behind us is deafening. The plane drops, stabilizes, then bounces and shakes, like a tiny pebble on the ground during an earthquake. Time seems to stretch out. The two men are on the floor in front of me, rolling around, maybe fighting; the plane is jostling me so hard I can’t tell.

Chaos erupts. The flight attendants fight their way down the aisles, bracing themselves on seat backs, stowing articles when they can, shouting at people to get back in their seats and fasten their seat belts. A voice comes over the PA, but I can’t make out the words.

Compartments overhead pop open, and an oxygen mask dangles in front of me, a round, yellow plastic bowl with a flat bottom. It bounces up and down on the clear plastic tube like a dangling piñata, just out of reach.

Grayson is gone—to where, I don’t know and don’t care. The other brooder gets up and steadies himself on the bulkhead. He peers down the length of the plane, squinting slightly, his eyes moving left and right, seeming to calculate something.

Finally he plops down in the seat beside me and pulls the seat belt tight.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I mouth, not sure if my voice is audible over the ruckus around us.

“Can you hear me?”

For some reason, his voice is crystal clear. His accent is American, its calmness a sharp contrast to the pandemonium around us. We seem to be in a bubble, he and I, talking casually while the outside world disintegrates.

“Yes,” I say, finally hearing my own voice, as if from far away.

“Buckle up and put your head between your knees. Wrap your fingers around the back of your head. Don’t look up.”

“Why?”

“I think we’re about to crash.”

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_0bbaacce-fcfc-556e-990e-165990155874)

Nick (#ulink_0bbaacce-fcfc-556e-990e-165990155874)

I’M ALIVE, BUT I’VE BEEN BETTER.

Every inch of my body aches. Gone is the slight buzz of alcohol, replaced by a pounding headache. It hurts worst around my pelvis. I pulled the belt low right before impact, hoping to spare my internal organs. It worked, but not without cost. I start to unbuckle it, but stop.

It’s too quiet.

The lights are out, and only faint moonlight seeps in through the windows. I hear a few low moans behind me. This 777 held around 250 people when it took off from JFK. If even a fraction were alive, the cabin would be awash in voices, probably screams. The relative silence is a bad sign.

My mind seems clear, my arms are fine, and I think I can walk. I’m in decent shape, but given how rough the crash was, I bet a lot of the other passengers weren’t as lucky as me. I have to help them. For the first time since—well, since I can remember—I feel close to normal, filled with purpose and urgency. I feel alive.

The woman beside me still hasn’t moved. She’s hunched over, her head between her legs, hands clasped behind it as I instructed her.

“Hey.” My voice comes out raspy.

She doesn’t move.

I reach out and brush her blond hair back. She turns slightly, a single bloodshot eye peering up at me, and pushes up slowly, revealing her slender face. The other eye is equally bloodshot. A bruise runs from her temple to her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nods and swallows. “Yeah, I think so.”

What next? Check her mental status? “What’s your name?”

“Harper. Harper Lane.”

“What’s your date of birth, Harper?”

“Eleventh December.” She smiles slightly, not adding the year.

Yeah, she’s okay. She looks late twenties or early thirties to me, and she’s British; I hadn’t realized that before. Probably on her way home to London.

“Stay here—I’ll be right back.”

Now the test. I unfasten my belt, stand up, and immediately stumble into the wall, hitting my shoulder hard. The plane’s settled at about a thirty-degree angle, nose down, tilted slightly to the left. I lean against the bulkhead, waiting for the pain to ebb.

Turning my head, I get my first glimpse back down the aisle … and freeze in shock.

The plane’s gone. Almost all of it. The first-class and business-class cabins are all that’s left. Just beyond the business section, tree branches crisscross the ragged opening. Around the edges, electrical pops flash against the dark forest. The vast majority of the passengers were in economy, and there’s no sign of it—only a quiet forest. The rest of the plane could be a hundred miles away, for all I know. Or in a million pieces. I’m surprised we’re not.

On the other side of the wall, I can hear a rhythmic pounding. Staggering a little, I feel my way around the divider that separates first class from the galley. It’s Jillian, the flight attendant, banging on the cockpit door.