A drop.
My stomach lurches.
Someone in the front cabin curses.
The plane banks sharply left.
That’s when I notice—the storm isn’t passing.
We’re dead center inside it.
Lightning flashes across the window.
Close. Too fucking close.
The warning lights blink on across the control panel up front.
Red.
Flashing.
My pulse kicks up.
This isn’t normal turbulence.
The pilot’s voice is no longer calm.
“Tower, this is Flight 9X-Delta, we’re requesting emergency routing. Repeat—emergency routing.”
Emergency.
The word slams into me.
My phone.
I grab it.
No signal.
Of course there’s no signal.
The plane drops again, harder this time.
Loose equipment slides.
The cabin tilts.
And suddenly all I can think about is her.
Hilary.
Back in Hammonton.
Probably sitting up.
Probably checking her phone.
Waiting for my call.