Withering Hope

We both walk toward the pile. I shudder at the sight of the pile of uneven shards. Mo

st are the size of my palm, a few even smaller. If those trees had fallen over my seat, or the cockpit…

I notice there are a few other things lined up next to the mirror shards. A pack of Band-Aids, eye pads, a pair of scissors, a whistle, needles, thread, a pack of insect repellent wipes, and two multifunctional pocket knives.

“These are part of the supplies from the survival kit,” Tristan says. “I brought them out to make a quick inventory.”

“Why just a part? Where’s the other part?”

“Part of the survival kit was in the cockpit. It contained the things you see here. The other part was in a compartment at the back of the plane, next to the bathroom.” He gestures toward the point of contact between the fallen trees and the plane. “It was crushed.”

“Great.” I debate for a second asking him what items were in there but decide against it. Better not to know what we’re missing out on.

My stomach rumbles—I'm growing hungry.

"There are also some peanuts, chocolate sticks, and two sandwiches," Tristan says. "Peanuts and chocolate will make the thirst worse, so I suggest avoiding them." The scant supplies don’t surprise me. Chris and I flew to the ranch two weeks ago to oversee the final preparations for the wedding. Since he didn’t need the jet while at the ranch, he had it sent for its annual technical inspection. A lousy job the technicians did too, considering the crash.

My boss at the law firm I work for unexpectedly asked me to come back to work the third day we were at the ranch, saying he needed help with a case. I flew back to L.A. on a commercial airline. My boss promised it would take less than a week, so I would still have a full week before the wedding to get things ready. The private jet was supposed to take me back, since the inspection would be done by then. I worked day and night, finishing a day early, and told Chris I wanted to return immediately.

The plane had been emptied of all supplies before the technical inspection and was supposed to be restocked the day before taking me to Brazil. Since I insisted on leaving a day earlier than planned, Tristan did some quick supply shopping for this trip.

"We're good,” I say. “The supplies should last until they rescue us."

Tristan doesn't answer.

"Won't they last?" I press, turning to him. He's bent on one knee between the pieces of the wrecked wing, inspecting something that separated from the plane and lies on the ground.

"They might last," he says.

"I've read about emergency location transmitters—”

"Ours is defective."

"What?"

"Useless."

“But the plane just had the technical inspection…”

“They did a terrible job,” he says angrily.

For a few moments, I am too stunned for words. "The flight plan…" I mumble.

Tristan stands up, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. Somehow I know, even before he opens his mouth, that what he is going to say will kill the last hope I'm clinging to. "We did file a flight plan. But I deviated considerably from it last night when I was looking for a place to land. We lost communication before I deviated, so there was no way I could inform anyone."

"What are you telling me, Tristan?" Desperation strangles my voice. "That there is no way for them to find us?"

"It's not like that. They can still guess how we—”

"Guess? We're in the middle of—” I stop, looking around wildly. "Where are we? Is the Amazon River nearby?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"I've climbed that tree to look around." He points at one of the giant trees next to us. "The river isn't anywhere in sight."

"I don't believe that," I whisper. "I don't…" Swirling on my heel, and sinking about an inch further in the muddy earth, I head to the tree.