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shouted at the paramedics to come quickly, but they could not hear me over the sound of the helicopters.
    What did I say to him? It is hard to remember exactly, but it would have been something like, ‘Are you okay? Don’t panic, I’m here now to help you.’
    So thick was the shroud of blood and mud covering his body that at first I did not realise he was naked–they said later that his clothes were blown off by the force of the impact. I reached out to touch him. His flesh was cold–but what do you expect? The temperature was below freezing.
    I am not ashamed to say that I cried.
    I wrapped my jacket around him, and as carefully as I could, I picked him up. He placed his head on my shoulder and whispered, ‘Three.’ Or at least that is what I thought he said. I asked him to repeat what he had said, but by then his eyes were closed, his mouth slack as if he was fast asleep and I was more concernedabout getting him to safety and keeping him warm before hypothermia set in.
    Of course now everyone keeps asking me: did you think there was anything strange about the boy? Of course I did not! He had just been through a horrific experience and what I saw were signs of shock.
    And I do not agree with what some are saying about him. That he’s possessed by angry spirits, perhaps by those of the dead passengers who envy his survival. Some say he keeps their furious souls in his heart.
    Nor do I give any credence to the other stories surrounding the tragedy–that the pilot was suicidal, that the forest was pulling him towards it–why else crash in Jukei? Stories like these only cause additional pain and trouble where there is already enough. It is obvious to me that the captain fought to bring the plane down in an unpopulated area. He had minutes in which to react; he did the noble thing.
    And how can a Japanese boy be what those Americans are saying? He is a miracle, that boy. I will remember him for the rest of my life.

My correspondence with Lillian Small continued until the FBI insisted that she no longer have contact with the outside world for her own safety. Although Lillian lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and I am a resident of Manhattan, we have never met in person. Her accounts are extrapolated from our many phone and email conversations.
    Reuben had been restless all morning and I’d settled him in front of CNN; sometimes it calms him down. In the old days, he loved to watch the news updates, especially anything political, really got a kick out of it, used to heckle the spin doctors and political analysts as if they could hear him. I don’t think he missed a debate or an interview during the midterms, which was when I first really knew there was a problem. He was having trouble recalling the name of that Texan governor, you know, that damn fool one who couldn’t say the word ‘homosexual’ without screwing his mouth up in disgust. I’ll never forget the look on Reuben’s face as he floundered to remember that putz’s name. He’d been hiding his symptoms from me, you see. He’d been hiding them for months.
    On that dreadful day, the anchorwoman was interviewing an analyst of some type about his predictions for the primaries when she cut him off mid-sentence: ‘I’m sorry, I have to interrupt you there, we’ve just heard that a Maiden Airlines plane has gone down in the Florida Everglades…’
    Of course, the first thought that jumped into my head when I heard the words ‘plane crash’ was 9/11. Terrorism. A bomb on board. I doubt there’s a single person in New York who didn’t think that when they heard about the crash. You just do.
    And then the images came on screen; an overhead view, from a helicopter. It didn’t show much, a swamp with an oily mass in its centre, where the plane had plummeted with such force it had been swallowed up. My fingers were freezing–as if I’d been holding ice–though I always make sure the apartment was warm. Ichanged the channel to a talk show, trying to shake