Comfort & Joy

“Well. You have a great vacation, Joy. And wish us luck on the hunt. ”

“Stay safe,” I say, unable to really hope the hunt goes well. I’m a card-carrying member of the don’t-shoot-living-things club. And the idea of men drinking and loading weapons seems remarkably stupid, but it’s not my business. “And thanks again for the seat. I think a little Hope is exactly what I need. ”

“Don’t we all?”

He ducks into the bathroom and slams the door shut. A few moments later, he’s out again and heading up the aisle toward his seat. He is almost to the first row when I hear a noise and feel a shudder in the airplane. Riegert stumbles forward, falls to his knees.

The nose of the plane dips down.

Down.

That’s not good. Planes should be headed up.

I grip the armrests to steady myself. I know it’s ridiculous—I mean, I can’t hold myself in place. But it makes me feel better, in control.

The plane levels off. I have time to murmur “thank God” and to smile before the explosion.

The plane drops hard and fast. My body flies forward; the seat belt yanks me back. I hit the cusions like a rag doll, with a terrible snap to the neck. My camera hits me in the ribs, hard. Bright yellow oxygen masks drop from the ceiling.

Somewhere in front of me, a man screams. It is a terrible sound, guttural and unnatural. I shake my head, thinking NO! Just that word. My heart is beating so fast I can’t draw a breath.

In the front of the cabin, the flight attendant is telling us to bend forward and press our heads into the seat in front of us. She’s pointing out the exit rows.

The captain interrupts her speech to say, “Brace yourselves. Flight attendant: Take your seat. ”

This isn’t turbulence.

We’re going to crash. You’d think it would happen in the blink of an eye, a thing like this, an airplane falling out of the sky, but the truth is that every second feels like an hour. It’s true that your life spirals before your eyes.

I call out my sister’s name and double over, gasping in pain. I should have talked to her, let her talk to me. My fingers claw into the armrests. Every breath is ragged and sharp.

The captain says again, “Brace for landing. ”

Landing. They make it sound scheduled, as if . . .

The plane slams into the ground nose first.

This time my scream is lost in the screeching, shrieking whine of tearing metal.

Things fly past me—a row of seats, a suitcase, a tray. It’s like being in a wind tunnel. The flight attendant tumbles past me. She is still strapped in her chair. All I can do is watch in horror as she goes past me, screaming. For a heartbeat, our gazes lock, then the cabin lights go out.

I scream again, unable this time to stop. The sounds I make are nothing, breezes in the monsoon.

Although I am seeing everything in slow motion, I know that the plane is rocketing forward, crashing through trees and rocks and dirt.

We hit something and flip over. My camera cracks me in the eye.

The whole plane shudders and groans and comes to a creaking stop.

A pain explodes in my head.

It takes me a second to realize we’re upside down. I’m hanging from my seat belt and everything hurts. The pain in my head—right behind me left eye—is like a hot iron wedge being hammered in place. I can taste blood.

But we are stopped. The horrible wrenching sound of metal tearing has stopped. Now it is quiet. Eerie.

Smoke rolls through the cabin, swallowing the seats and aisle. I can’t see anything. The coughing starts, then the sobbing.

I unlatch my seat belt and fall to the floor, hitting my head so hard I lose consciousness for a moment. When I wake, I am disoriented. Then I taste my own blood and I remember: I need to get out of the plane.