A shaky sob breaks out of me. “I’m going to throw up.”
“You can throw up after you land.” His tone doesn’t change. “Right now, you fly.”
I swallow it down, the bile and the panic both. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
“Throttle,” he says. “That’s the black knob by your right hand.”
I glance down. Find it. “Yes.”
“Pull it back a little. Just a little. We’re going to start a gradual descent.”
My hand shakes as I tug it back. The engine sound changes—drops slightly. The plane starts to sink.
My heart jumps into my throat. “It’s going down!”
“It’s supposed to,” he says firmly. “You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
I cling to his words.
The runway grows larger. The lights become clearer. My fear grows too—because the closer I get, the more real it becomes. Landing. I’ve done landing practice with Rick. With Rick awake. Talking. Breathing. Holding the second set of controls. Making calm jokes about how I “look like I’m wrestling an alligator.”
This is different. This is me alone with gravity and consequences.
“Okay,” Silas says. “We’re going to line you up. Keep the runway centered in your windscreen.”
Centered.
I adjust. The runway slides slightly. I correct again.
My breath stutters. “I can’t— I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice stays calm, but there’s steel in it now. “Listen to me. You are flying that plane right now. You’ve been doing it this whole time.”
I blink, tears spilling down my cheeks.
He’s right. I’m still alive.
“Now, you’re going to bring the nose down just a touch,” he says. “Not much. And keep that airspeed steady. Around seventy.”
“Seventy,” I whisper, nodding to myself like a lunatic. My fingers ache from gripping too hard.
Rick makes another weak sound beside me. A wheeze.
“Rick!” I turn my head. “Rick, please?—”
His head rolls slightly. His eyes flutter but don’t open. A fresh wave of fear slams into me.
Silas’s voice cuts through it. “Eyes forward, Hannah.”
I snap back. He’s right. If I lose control now, none of this matters.
“Runway’s coming up,” Silas says. “You’re going to feel the ground rush at you. That’s normal. Don’t pull up hard. Just start easing back gently when you’re a few feet above the runway.”
My throat is dry. “How do I know when it’s a few feet?”
“You’ll know,” he says. “Trust your eyes. Trust your instincts.”
Trust. That word feels impossible. But I try.