Withering Hope

Luckily we had the good sense to cover the wood we gathered and didn't use for the fire with those racket-sized leaves, or it would have been soaked by now. We each grab two cans of water and skid inside.

Tristan barely gets the door of the plane closed before we empty the cans again.

"I have a towel in my luggage." I say, grateful I decided to stuff my favorite incredibly smooth, cotton towel in my bag—silly, because I knew there would be plenty of towels at the ranch and at our honeymoon resort. I'm grinning like an idiot, feeling so exuberant I may burst with relief and joy.

"I'll get your bag," Tristan heads to the back of the plane at once, "and mine too. It's as good a time as any to go through our stuff and see what we can do with what we have." We’re lucky. Our bags are in a compartment just a few inches away in front of where the trees fell on the plane.

We both have small bags. Tristan has a cabin bag, and mine is just a bit larger. Everything I needed for our honeymoon was already at the ranch. What I have in this bag are a few dresses I packed on a whim, deciding they were better for our fancy dinners at the resort during the honeymoon than the dresses I had at the ranch. Runway dresses made from expensive fabrics and shoes to match—all worthless here, which is why I haven't bothered to unpack.

"I'll go in the cockpit and let you change," Tristan says.

I dry myself with the towel then bend over my bag, trying to decide which dress would be less inappropriate. I pick up a red silk dress and notice a pair of black jeans. I rejoice. I'd forgotten I packed those. I also find two T-shirts beneath the jeans. Well, at least it's something. I slip on the jeans and one of the T-shirts and take the towel to Tristan.

When he comes out of the cockpit he's wearing clothing almost identical to the soaked uniform he discarded: dark pants and a white shirt.

"Should we go through our bags and see what we can add to our supplies now?" he asks. I nod, but there's a knot in my throat as I sit on the floor, staring at my bag. Tristan sits opposite me. My eyes sting a bit and fill with tears as I go through my stuff. I was supposed to be at the ranch or on my honeymoon when I did this. A tear escapes and I brush it away, not wanting Tristan to see me cry. But one glance shows me he's not looking at me at all. He's hunched over his bag, concentrating on something—whether to give me privacy, or because he's genuinely interested in it, I can't tell. But as I go through my things—the white chiffon dress with a navy waistband, the shoes, I almost feel like I am on my honeymoon, preparing to start the first day of my married life. I smile.

"I was planning to wear this at our first dinner in the honeymoon resort," I say, holding up the white dress, smiling. Tristan watches me with an unreadable expression. "And this one on our second night."

"There is still time for them to find us, Aimee."

"Do you really believe that?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer.

"I had each day of our honeymoon planned."

"I have to admit this is something that has always fascinated me about you. You're obsessed with planning everything."

Well, Tristan would know everything about my borderline maniacal habit of planning things down to the most insignificant detail. Long before I had being a bride for an excuse, he had the… privilege… of witnessing my behavior as he drove me around.

"It's a habit I’ve refined over the years, and it’s been very useful. I finished my law degree one year sooner than everyone else," I say, bursting with pride.

"I heard," he says. "You had your whole future planned."

"You didn't?"

He gives a laugh that chills me. "Why waste my energy? You do all that planning and then something like this happens."

"Because crashing in the Amazon rainforest happens every day, right?" I raise an eyebrow.

Tristan snaps his head up, his jaw tight. "No, it doesn't. Let's just drop this."

We make an inventory of the things that qualify as supplies in silence. We have two tubes of toothpaste, two shower gels, two deodorants, two shampoos, and a conditioner. That should be more than enough until they rescue us, Tristan and I agree, though I think Tristan says it for my sake, not because he believes we'll be rescued. I also find a small makeup bag in my luggage, but I put it right at the bottom, because this is the very last thing I’ll need here. Tristan brings three magazines he’d forgotten he bought for me when he bought the sodas and sandwiches for the journey. Our phones and my tablet are already dead. There are a total of two blankets and half a dozen pillows in the plane. Then there are the things from the survival kit we inspected yesterday. We also check our first aid kit. Unfortunately, it was at the back of the plane next to the part of the survival kit that was obliterated. Thankfully, only half of the first aid kit was caught under the trunk, so we can still pick out a few items that weren’t destroyed: bandages, pads, tweezers, cream to treat insect stings, aspirin, a suture kit, and surprisingly, an unscathed bottle of rubbing alcohol.

I hope we won't need any of it.

I sigh. When Chris’s father was doing the travelling, he had a different kind of jet: one of those ultra-luxurious ones with twelve seats and a huge leather couch. He also kept a suitcase with clothes and toiletries permanently on the plane, in case he had to extend his trip somewhere. The plane was always stocked with more food and drinks than were necessary.

When Chris took the company over, he changed to a smaller, six-seat private jet, and always stocked it with just the supplies needed for the journey. While his father loved to indulge in luxury, Chris lived with efficiency. He didn’t like showing off or overspending. That was one of the reasons he man

aged to increase his father’s wealth so quickly. He hated waste. I love that about him, but now I wish we were in his father’s luxurious jet. It would make a few things easier.

As it is, between Chris’s efficiency and the fact that the plane was emptied of all supplies before the inspection, we don’t have much. There isn’t even one bottle of liquor on board. Tristan knows I don’t drink while flying—it makes me sick—so he didn’t buy anything. We could use it for disinfection purposes if the small bottle of rubbing alcohol runs out. I shudder. That’s no way to think. We won’t need another bottle. Heck, I hope we won’t even need this small bottle. We’ll be rescued in no time.

When the rain stops, we go outside, and are delighted to discover we've collected a decent amount of water. The baskets I made out of leaves yesterday have pulled apart, but the ones I made today hold water perfectly. I want to drink water at once, but Tristan stops me, insisting that we boil it first. I argue that rainwater should be pure, but he says there's a good chance there were microorganisms on the leaves I used to make the baskets. I finally agree, though my throat aches with thirst. I also ask why we couldn’t just boil the muddy water from the bottom of the hill and drink it before, but he says he doesn’t trust the muddy water not to make us sick, even boiled.

We build a fire with the wood we sheltered under leaves, and boil the water using the empty soda cans as containers. Since we have just four cans, it takes forever to sterilize enough water to still our thirst. Tristan also proclaims the huge grapefruits we gathered safe to eat, so we feast on those. After we're done, Tristan points out that we need to build some kind of shelter where we can keep the wood safe from rain. The large leaves we covered the wood with protected it, but we need something more substantial.