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  For my parents, Ken and Denise Newman

  What hath God wrought!

  —Numbers 23:23

  WHEN THE SHOE DROPPED INTO her lap the foot was still in it.

  She flung it into the air with a shriek. The bloodied mass hung in weightless suspension before being sucked out of the massive hole in the side of the aircraft. On the floor next to her seat, a flight attendant crawled up the aisle screaming for the passengers to put their oxygen masks on.

  From the back of the airplane, Bill observed it all.

  The passenger with the shoe clearly couldn’t hear what the young flight attendant was yelling. She probably hadn’t heard a thing since the explosion. Thin lines of blood trickled out of both ears.

  The blast had thrown the flight attendant’s body into the air and then back down, her head of curly brown hair hitting the floor with a thwack. She lay motionless for a second before the plane went into a steep nosedive. Sliding down the aisle, the flight attendant grabbed at the metal rungs beneath the passenger seats. Clutching on to one, her arms shook as she tried to pull herself up against the plane’s downward pitch. As she flipped onto her side, her feet floated and dangled in the air. Debris flew all around the plane; paper and clothing, a laptop, a soda can. A baby’s blanket. It was like the inside of a tornado.

  Bill followed her gaze down the plane—and saw sky.

  Sunlight shone in on them from a wide opening that had been the over-wing emergency exit not thirty seconds ago. The other flight attendant had just stopped there to collect trash.

  Bill had watched the older, redheaded flight attendant smile, take the empty cup in her gloved hand, drop it in the plastic bag—and then in one explosive moment she was gone. The whole row was gone. The side of the aircraft was gone. Bill widened his stance as the plane yawed left to right, seemingly unable to keep a straight path. Of course, the rudder, he thought. The whole tail was probably damaged.

  A crack came from above the brunette flight attendant’s head as several overhead bins burst open. Luggage tumbled out, tossed violently about the cabin. A large pink suitcase with wheels shot forward, sucked toward the opening. It hit the side of the fuselage as it went out, a chunk of the aircraft’s skin ripped off with it. Exposed frames and stringers created a lattice of human engineering against the heavens. Beyond the whipping wires hissing orange and yellow sparks, clouds dotted the view. Bill squinted against the sun.

  The plane leveled off enough that the flight attendant on the floor could get to her knees. Bill watched her struggle against a body that wouldn’t cooperate. She managed to pull her leg forward only to find her femur sticking out of her thigh. She blinked at the bloody wound a few times and then kept crawling.

  “Masks!” she screamed, dragging herself up the aisle toward the back of the plane, her voice barely audible above the deafening roar of wind. She looked over to a man grabbing at the oxygen masks. He caught one and went to put it over his face but a gust ripped it out of his fingers, plastic and elastic straps flailing.

  Gray fog choked the cabin in a swirling haze of debris and chaos. A metal water bottle went flying through the air, smacking into the crawling flight attendant’s face. Blood began to pour from her nose.

  “He’s been shot! My husband! Help!”

  Bill looked to the woman pounding her fists against her husband’s lifeless torso. Two small circles in his forehead streamed red over his eyes and down his cheeks. The flight attendant brushed the curls out of her face as she pulled herself up on the armrests for a closer look.

  They weren’t bullets. They were rivets from the plane.

  The plane vibrated violently and the floor began to buckle. Bill could feel everything shifting beneath him. He wondered if the airframe would hold. He wondered how much time they had.

  The flight attendant continued on, placing her hand in a dark spot on the carpet at the same moment Bill smelled the urine. The flight attendant looked up at the man in the aisle seat. He stared off in a state of shock, the puddle spreading at his feet.

  “Ice,” someone moaned.

  The flight attendant turned. Bill watched the passenger on the other side of the aisle extend her hands to the young woman, holding out a fleshy chunk of something. The flight attendant recoiled. Looking up, the passenger’s chin and neck were painted crimson.

  “Ice,” she repeated, a wave of blood gushing out of her mouth.

  It was her tongue.

  Bill glanced over his shoulder to the back wall, watching the cord of the interphone thrash in the wind as the flight attendant crawled toward it. He looked to the other side of the galley. The third flight attendant lay crumpled on the floor, a toppled carton of juice next to her. Bill turned his head to the side, watching the glugs of orange mix with the pool of red around her body.

  The brunette dragged herself at last to the end of the aisle, packets of sugar and mini creamers crunching against her uniform. She reached a hand forward but yanked it back.

  A pair of black dress shoes blocked her path.

  The flight attendant looked up. Lying at Bill’s feet, broken and bloodied, her jaw hung open but no words came. Bill’s tie flapped in the wind. The sound of the engines screamed at them both, willing something, anything, to happen.

  “But… if you’re…” the flight attendant stammered, looking up at Bill, betrayal written across her face. “Who has control of the plane, Captain Hoffman?”

  Bill inhaled sharply as though to speak, but couldn’t.

  He looked down the plane to the closed cockpit door.

  He was supposed to be on the other side.

  Bill leapt over the flight attendant, sprinting down the aisle toward the front of the aircraft. He ran as fast as he could, but the door seemed to move farther away the faster he ran. All around him, people cried out, begging him to stop and help them. He kept running. The door kept moving farther and farther away. He closed his eyes.

  His body slammed into the door without warning, his skull bashing against the impenetrable surface. His hands cradled his head as he stumbled backward. Woozy, he tried to think of how he could breach the sealed cockpit, but not a single idea came to mind. He pounded on the door until his fists went numb.

  Hyperventilating, he stepped back to kick at it when he heard a click.

  The door unlocked and cracked open. Bill rushed inside.

  Buttons flashed red and amber warnings on nearly every surface in the cockpit. A loud, incessant alarm screeched, the shrill noise intensifying in the tiny space. He sat down in his seat on the left, the captain’s seat.

  He struggled to focus on the display in front of him as the plane’s thrashing tossed the numbers about. Red followed him everywhere he looked. Every button, every knob, every display was screaming at him.

  Through the window, the approaching ground loomed closer and closer.

  Get to work, Bill ordered himself.

  His hands stretched out in front of him.

  Frozen.

  Dammit, you’re the captain. You need to make a decision. You’re running out of time.

  The alarms got louder. A robotic voice repeatedly commanded him to pull up.

  “What about asymmetrical thrust?”

  Bill turned his head. From the copilot’s seat his ten-year-old son, Scott, shrugged. He was wearing his solar sys
tem pajamas. His feet didn’t touch the ground.

  “You could give that a try,” the boy added.

  Bill looked back to his hands. His fingers refused to move. They just hung in the air.

  “Fine, then. Do it the hard way. Dive and use speed to keep a straight line.”

  He turned again to see his wife now reclined in the chair. Arms crossed, she gave him that smirk. The one she used when they both knew she was right. God, she was gorgeous.

  Sweat dripped down his neck as he struggled to move and take action. But he remained paralyzed in fear. Terrified he would make the wrong call.

  Carrie tucked her hair behind one ear as she leaned over, placing a hand on her husband’s knee.

  “Bill. It’s time.”

  * * *

  He gasped for air as his body shot upright. Moonlight poured through the crack in the curtains to streak across the king-size bed. He scanned the room for the flashing warnings. He listened for the alarms, but heard only a neighbor’s dog barking outside.

  Bill dropped his head in his hands with an exhale.

  “Same one?” Carrie asked from the other side of the bed.

  He nodded in the dark.

  CHAPTER ONE

  GIVING THE DUVET A SHAKE, Carrie smoothed the creases with her hand. A whiff of fresh-cut grass drew her glance to the open window. The neighbor across the street mopped his face with the bottom of his shirt before closing the trash can full of lawn clippings with a clunk. Dragging it into the backyard, he gave a wave to a passing car, the loud music fading as it drove on. Behind her, in the bathroom, the shower shut off.

  Carrie left the room.

  “Mom, can I go outside?”

  Scott stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a remote control car.

  “Where’s your—” Carrie said, making her way downstairs.

  The baby crawled into the room, blowing wet raspberries as she went. Reaching her brother’s feet, Elise grabbed onto his shorts and pulled herself up to a stand, her little body jerking subtly as she tried to find balance.

  “Okay, did you bring your dishes to the sink?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then you can, but only for ten minutes. Come back before your dad leaves, okay?”

  The boy nodded and ran for the door.

  “Nope,” Carrie called after him, placing Elise on her hip. “Shoes.”

  The “whoops” baby ten years after the first kid had been overwhelming in the beginning. But as the family of three learned how to be four, Bill and Carrie realized the age gap meant big brother could do little things like watch-the-baby-while-I-get-dressed-and-make-the-bed. Things became more manageable after that.

  Carrie was wiping the remnants of sweet potato and avocado off the high chair when she heard the front door open.

  “Mom?” Scott hollered, a pinched alarm to his tone.

  Hurrying around the corner, she found Scott staring up at a man she didn’t know. The stranger on the front porch wore a startled look, his hand frozen on its way to the doorbell.

  “Hi,” Carrie said, shifting the baby to her other hip as she moved to place herself subtly between her son and the man. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m with CalCom,” the man said. “You called about your internet?”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, opening the door wider. “Of course, come in.” Carrie cringed at her initial reaction, hoping the man hadn’t noticed. “Sorry. I’ve never had a repairman come on time, let alone early. Scott!” she yelled, her son pivoting at the end of the drive. “Ten minutes.”

  Nodding, the boy ran off.

  “I’m Carrie,” she said, closing the door.

  The technician set his equipment bag down in the entryway and Carrie watched him take in the living room. High ceilings and a staircase to the second floor. Tasteful furniture and fresh flowers on the coffee table. On the mantel, family photos over the years, the most recent taken on the beach at sunset. Scott was a mini-me of Carrie, their same chocolatey-brown hair blowing in the sea breeze, their green eyes squinted with wide smiles. Bill, nearly a foot taller than Carrie, held a then-newborn Elise in his arms, her lily-white baby skin a contrast to his Southern California tan. The repairman turned with a small smile.

  “Sam,” he said.

  “Sam,” she said, returning the smile. “Can I get you something to drink before you get started? I was just about to make myself a cup of tea.”

  “Tea would be great, actually. Thanks.”

  She led him into the other room, bright, natural light filling the kitchen that opened into the toy-dotted family room.

  “Thanks for coming on a Saturday.” Carrie sat the baby back in the high chair. Pounding her fists on the table, Elise giggled through a sparsely toothed grin. “This was the only appointment I could get for weeks.”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty busy. How long has your internet been out?”

  “Day before yesterday?” she said, filling a tea kettle with water. “English breakfast or green?”

  “English breakfast, thanks.”

  “Is it normal,” Carrie asked, watching the stove’s pilot light ignite to a full flame, “for our house to be the only one having issues? I asked a few neighbors who also have CalCom and theirs is fine.”

  Sam shrugged. “That’s normal. Might be your router, maybe the wiring. I’ll run diagnostics.”

  From the front room, heavy footsteps made their way down the stairs. Carrie knew the next sounds well: a suitcase and messenger bag set by the door, followed by hard-soled shoes crossing the entryway. In a handful of strides, he was in the kitchen, polished black dress shoes, crisply ironed pants, suit coat, and tie. Wings above his breast pocket displayed the Coastal Airways insignia, BILL HOFFMAN engraved boldly below. A matching pair adorned the front of the gold-trimmed hat he laid softly on the counter. His entrance felt oddly dramatic and Carrie noticed how much of a contrast his aura of authority made to the rest of the house. She’d never noticed it before; it wasn’t like he came to dinner in uniform. And it was probably only because there was another person in the room, a man who didn’t know him, didn’t know their family. But for whatever reason, today, it was conspicuous.

  Bill placed his hands in his pockets with a polite nod to the technician before settling his attention on Carrie.

  Lips pursed, arms crossed, she stared back.

  “Sam, would you mind…”

  “Yeah, I’ll, uh, get set up,” Sam said to Carrie, leaving the couple alone.

  The clock on the wall ticked the seconds. Baby Elise banged a drool-covered teething ring on the tray before it slipped out of her fingers, falling to the floor. Bill crossed the kitchen and picked it up, rinsing it off in the sink and drying it with a dish towel before returning it to his daughter’s eager hands. Behind Carrie the tea kettle began a soft whistle.

  “I’ll FaceTime when I get to the hotel to hear how the game—”

  “New York, right?” Carrie cut him off.

  Bill nodded. “New York tonight, Portland tom—”

  “There’s a team pizza party after the game. With the three-hour time difference, you’ll be asleep before we get home.”

  “Okay. Then first thing—”

  “We’re getting together with my sister and the kids tomorrow morning,” she said, and shrugged. “So, we’ll see.”

  Bill straightened with a deep inhale, the four gold stripes on his epaulets rising with his shoulders. “You know I had to say yes. If it’d been anyone else asking I wouldn’t have.”

  Carrie stared at the floor. The kettle began to screech and she shut off the burner. The noise gradually softened until it was only the clock making noise again.

  Bill checked his watch, cursing under his breath. Giving a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head, he said, “I’m gonna be late.”

  “You’ve never been late,” Carrie replied.

  He put on his hat. “I’ll call after I check in. Where’s Scott?”

  “Outside. Playing. He’s coming b
ack any minute to say goodbye.”

  It was a test and she knew Bill knew it. Carrie stared at him from the other side of the unspoken line she’d drawn. He glanced at the clock.

  “We’ll talk before I take off,” Bill said, leaving the room.

  Carrie watched him go.

  The front door opened and closed a few moments later and a hush settled over the house. Crossing to the sink, Carrie watched the leaves on the oak tree in the backyard flutter in the breeze. Distantly, Bill’s car started up and drove off.

  Behind her, a throat cleared. Wiping her face hastily, she turned.

  “Sorry about that,” she said to Sam with an embarrassed eye roll. “Anyway. You said English breakfast.” Tearing open the tea bag, she dropped it in a mug. Steam rose from the kettle as she poured the hot water. “Do you need milk or sugar?”

  When he didn’t reply, she looked back.

  He seemed surprised by her reaction. He had probably imagined she would scream. Maybe drop the cup. Start to cry, who knows. Some kind of drama he surely expected. When a woman, at home, in her own kitchen, turns to find a man she’s known for a mere handful of minutes pointing a gun at her, a big reaction would seem natural. Carrie had felt her eyes widen reflexively, like her brain needed to take in more of the scene to confirm that this was actually happening.

  He narrowed his eyes, as if to say, Really?

  Carrie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears while a cool numbness trickled down from the top of her spine to the back of her knees. Her whole body, her whole existence, felt reduced to nothing but a buzzing sensation.

  But that was for her to know. She ignored the gun and focused on him instead, and gave him nothing.

  Puckering and cooing, baby Elise threw her teething ring back to the floor with a squeal. Sam took a step toward the baby. Carrie felt her nostrils flare involuntarily.

  “Sam,” Carrie said calmly, slowly. “I don’t know what you want. But it’s yours. Anything. I will do anything. Just please”—her voice cracked—“please don’t hurt my children.”