CHAPTER 1
Hannah
My flight instructor is unconscious. Like… full-on, head-lolling, eyes-closed, not-breathing-right unconscious.
In a plane.
In the air.
With me.
A sick, weightless feeling drops through my stomach like the floor has disappeared. My hands clamp harder around the yoke, knuckles going white, and my brain—my usually capable, competent brain—turns into a dial-up modem from 1999.
This isn’t happening.
This cannot be happening.
I paid for a lesson, not a near-death experience.
“Rick?” I say, voice too high, too thin. “Rick, hey—stop it. This isn’t funny.”
His chin is on his chest. His headset has slipped crooked. One arm is hanging limp beside his seat like a prop in a haunted house.
I glance at the instrument panel and immediately regret it. There are too many numbers. Too many needles. Too many blinking things that feel like they’re judging me.
The plane dips slightly, a soft, innocent little wobble that should not be terrifying, except it is—because I am the only conscious human being inside this flying metal box.
My lungs tighten. I force air in anyway. Okay. Okay. Don’t spiral. If I spiral, we die. That seems… suboptimal.
My headset crackles with static and my pulse slams in my ears. I fumble for the radio mic with shaking fingers.
I’ve practiced this part. I’ve practiced this a hundred times in my head becauseI’m not reckless.I’m not some thrill-seeker. I’m not here because I want to feel the wind in my hair and scream into the sky.
I’m here because I’m trying to stay alive. Because learning to fly is supposed to be my way out. Not my way into an early grave. My hand finds the push-to-talk button.
“Mayday—mayday—mayday.” My voice breaks on the first word, but I say it again, louder. “This is… this is student pilot Hannah— I don’t know the tail number?—”
Great start. Love that for us.
“I’m in a small plane—Cessna—something—” I swallow and look at the panel, forcing my eyes to focus. There. Letters. Numbers. “Tail number N… N-seven… nine… four… three… something…”
My instructor makes a sound. A wet cough that makes my heart leap.
“Rick?” I snap, turning toward him.
His head shifts. He doesn’t wake.
No. Nonono.
I look forward again, my hands tightening. The horizon looks steady enough. The plane is still flying. That is… something.
But I’m too high. Too far. Too alone.
My throat burns. “Mayday. My instructor is unconscious. I— I need help.”
Static hisses. Then a voice comes through—deep, calm, and so steady it makes my eyes sting.
“Cessna November-seven-niner-four-three-two, this is Timber Creek traffic. I’ve got you.”