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him on. “Maybe you can pull back against the oncoming wind to slow us down,” I suggest, “like this.”
    I put my hand on his. The touch of our skin breaks the tension in his face, if just a little, and his lips part. I move my fingers to guide his. Isn’t it strange, that even in a time like this when our lives literally hang in the balance, I find myself longing for his attention? Why do John and I have to play this game? I get no thrill in the chase. It makes my stomach writhe, worrying and recalling every single time my heart’s been broken or neglected or betrayed. Can’t we just say what we feel and know the relationship we have? Or does he enjoy the endless, emotional mystery?
    “We can use the wind,” I whisper calmly. “Then, the moment we break through the mist …”
    The ruminating mind of John shows in the tensed furrowing of his brow and the locking of his chiseled, stubble-dusted jaw as he clenches and unclenches his teeth, chewing on nothing but his worries.
    “Then we’ll let the hover propulsion stabilize our fall,” he says, finishing my sentence, “provided there aren’t too many trees.”
    “Yes, that’s it,” I encourage him over the wailing alarm, my small, pale hand still resting on his rough one.
    As the belly of the craft flirts with the fog, the hum of its engine grows louder. Then everything starts to shiver, from the walls to the tied-down crates to our very feet, as if cutting through the cloud is its most trying endeavor yet. The white blanket rises, rises, rises … until white is all we know.
    Instantly, the dark trees emerge through the blinding white, appearing as ugly, crooked thorns jutting out of the earth and whipping past us. Too soon, the craft grazes the tips of the trees, snapping them right off and showering splinters down below. Shaking, jostling, we all clutch our nearest savior—a crate, a chair, a person—and brace for a less-than-tender landing.
    The ground rushes to meet the vehicle faster than any of us can scream, but before we crash, the propulsion of the hovercraft makes us bounce off the ground, then ricocheting sideways off a thicket of nearby trees, and then the whole craft goes belly-up, all of us flipped upside-down. Losing my footing, I clutch John as we tumble to the ceiling—our new floor—and are met with the slam of Marianne’s body to my right. The three of us squeezed against the screens of the ceiling that blink and flicker and flash, we hold on tightly as everything slows to an abrupt and noiseless stop.
    The lights flicker off, the alarm ceasing with it.
    In the merciful silence, we hear the engine breathe its last, almost like a sigh, and then we are truly in a silent nothingness. Even our breathing seems trapped in a vacuum, my heartbeat turned silent as we lie in the dark.
    Mari is first to speak. “Jen? John?”
    “I’m alive,” I answer quietly.
    “I’m good,” John returns too. I feel his body shift, perhaps to lift his head. “Delivery guy? You still with us?”
    He responds with a miserable and meek, “Mm-hmm,” before he, too, squirms in the dark to right himself.
    I lift my own head, looking in all directions, hungry for a sign of light. Even the front window lends nothing; everything in all directions is pure black. When my eyes adjust, I catch a dim red glimmer in my peripheral and turn toward it to find Mari’s glowing cheeks staring back at me. With a grunt, I pull out my device that still lives in my pocket. The miniscule light that emits from its screen casts a ghostly glow that fills the cabin.
    “Can we get a better light?” asks John. “I don’t want you to waste its energy. We may need it.”
    “This is all your fault,” whimpers the boy, his voice quivering. “We’re all dead and it’s your fault.”
    I’m not quite sure to whom he’s assigning said fault, but I’ll assume it’s me. I’m about to say something when John answers instead. “We’re not dead,” he tells him, like it’s good