55
Sara
I’ve always thought that planes with malfunctioning engines fall out of the sky, like birds that had been shot. But as I stare at Peter in paralyzed terror, I don’t feel a sharp drop.
Somehow, we’re still gliding forward as we descend.
“Sara.” His voice sharpens. “Bend over and hug your knees. Now.”
My frozen limbs somehow comply, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him assume the same position.
Oh God.
It’s happening.
It’s real.
We’re crashing.
We’re about to die.
My rapid breathing is tornado loud in my ears, my right hand slippery with sweat as I push it through the mound of pillows to touch Peter’s arm.
I need to feel him.
Need to know that we’re connected to the end.
Then his big hand wraps around my palm again, and for a fraction of a second, it’s all I need.
