54
Sara
My insides feel like leaves in a winter storm as Peter guides me to my seat and straps me in, tightening the seatbelt across my lap until it’s almost hard to breathe. Then he limps over to the couch and pulls off the cushions. Bringing them over, he dumps them in front of me, then opens an overhead bin and pulls down a duffel bag.
“What are you doing?” My voice starts to shake. “Peter, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t reply, just pulls out a long rope and a knife. Grabbing one of the cushions, he ties it to the back of the seat in front of me, exactly where my head would hit if I assumed the classical plane-crash position and something were to push me forward.
Then he takes the other cushion and stuffs it to the left of me, between my seat and the window. It’s wedged tightly in
