Withering Hope

I don't argue. He's right. "Where do you suggest we look for it?" I ask.

Tristan eyes me. "You go inside the plane and rest for a bit. I'll look for a stream nearby."

"I want to come too."

"No." The firmness in his voice takes me by surprise. "There's no need for both of us to waste our energy."

"I don't want to just stay here, doing nothing."

"Then bring out everything in the plane that can hold water, so if rain comes, we can collect it."

"Got it."

As Tristan leaves, making his way between the trees, armed with his pocket knife, fear grips me. "Be careful," I say.

"Don't worry about me," he calls over his shoulder. There is no tremble in his voice, no hesitation in his steps. The forest doesn’t seem to scare him at all. I scout the inside of the plane for anything that might collect water, but I don't find much. I line empty soda cans outside, then start peeking around the wrecked wing to see if there's anything I can use. I scout through the shredded metal, doing my best not to cut myself. No luck. I give up the search when nausea overwhelms me, reminding me my water level is low. I walk over to the airstairs, resting against it. Where is Tristan? How much time has passed since he disappeared into the forest?

I stare at the empty soda cans, when an idea occurs to me. A few trees around me have leaves as huge as a tennis racket. They must be of some use. I drag my feet to one whose leaves have an edge that curls upward, perfect for holding water. I use the pocket knife Tristan gave me to cut the leaves. Though they come off almost effortless

ly, by the time I cut off about twelve leaves or so, I feel like I'm going to faint. I wobble back to the plane, trying to bind the leaves in some form that will hold water. They end up looking like tightly woven baskets. I suppose we'll see if they're tight enough to hold water. I keep my ears strained, hoping to hear a plane fly over us. Nothing.

When I'm done with the leaves, I collapse on the airstairs, exhausted. I'm tempted, oh so tempted to grab another soda can from the plane and drink it…

It's almost dark when Tristan's voice resounds from the trees. "I didn't find anything. Oh, great thinking," he says, pointing to the leaf baskets I laid out in front of me. He looks terrible. His skin is glistening with sweat, and he has dark circles under his eyes. "These should collect a healthy amount of water."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the implication gnaws at me. We won't leave this place as soon as I thought. But I can't find the energy to worry about that. Probably because of the thirst. "Let's just hope it rains."

"It will be pouring soon," he says with reassurance. "Let’s get inside the plane, it's almost dark. It's dangerous to be outside in the dark."

"Beasts?" I ask.

"And mosquitos. They're more dangerous than beasts."

We each use an insect repellent wipe from the survival kit. Then Tristan grabs the contents of the survival kit he laid out, as well as the mirror shards, and we proceed to the airstairs. Even with Tristan's help, I climb very slowly. He helps me to my seat and shuts the door of the plane. We each eat a sandwich and share the last two cans of soda, which do nothing to still my thirst.

Afterward I lie on the seat I slept on last night. I didn’t bother putting it upright this morning or removing the pillow and blanket Tristan gave me last night, so it’s already resembling a bed.

"I'm going to the cockpit," Tristan announces.

"Why?"

"To sleep."

"You can sleep on one of the other seats. It'll be much more comfortable than—”

"No, I prefer it that way."

I shrug. "Fine."

I curl up in my makeshift bed, dreading the night. I've suffered from insomnia since I was little. No matter how many sleeping exercises I've tried, I don't sleep more than four or five hours a night. I shiver, my sweat-soaked clothes clinging to me. I have a suitcase with clothes nearby but no energy to get up and find it.

That's when I remember my wedding dress. As if jolted by an electric current, I rise from my seat, looking around for it. It can't be in plain sight, or I would have seen it when I searched for objects to hold water. I sink to my knees, putting my palms forward for support. The light in the plane comes from the moon outside, but it doesn't take me long to spot the creamy fabric of the dress's protective bag under the seat across from mine. I don't open the bag; I can’t look at the dress right now. Instead, I go back to my seat, clutching the bag in my arms, and begin to cry. I am glad Tristan went to the cockpit. This moment is mine and Chris’s, who must be feeling the same desperation that is rotting me from the inside out.

He'll come for me and Tristan. I know he will.

I wake up still clutching the protective bag in the morning. It sticks to my sweaty, clammy skin, making me wish I could shower. My throat is dry and I look out the window, holding my breath. It hasn't rained. I stumble out of my seat, desperate to get out of the plane. The door is shut, though, which means Tristan is still sleeping. I decide to let him sleep, because he exerted himself more than I did yesterday. I try to open the door myself. I've seen Kyra do it a few times, but since I wasn't paying too much attention to what she was doing, all I manage to do is make a lot of noise as I try to pull it open.

"Whoa, you don't have to disassemble the plane," Tristan's voice booms.