Departure

“I’ve seen the picture Mike took. Could be anything in there. You’ll need me, Nick.”

Time for tough love. I hate to do it, but 104 souls are on the line, and we’re running out of time to help them. “There’s plenty to do around here, Bob. We’re looking at a grueling hike. We can’t stop for anybody who can’t keep up.”

“I can keep up.”

Unfortunately, I doubt it. Bob has to be sixty, and I’m not even sure if I can keep up with Mike, who must be ten years younger than I am and in considerably better shape.

I exhale and try for the logical approach. “Look, if you fall behind after noon, you won’t be able to make it back to camp before nightfall. You’ll be out in the cold for the night. With no food—”

“I understand, Nick. If I can’t keep up, I’ll make you leave me. I know what’s at stake. When do we leave?”

The truth is, I can’t stop Bob, and we need to get going. I shake my head, finally relenting. “Now. Grab Mike, and we’ll head out.”

Inside the plane, I kneel beside Harper’s pod. She’s asleep, or unconscious. I shake her, but she doesn’t come to. Her hair’s drenched. So’s her shirt. I wipe the sweat off her forehead, brushing her damp hair back. Feeling how hot her skin is scares me. She’s dangerously sick.

In that moment, I feel the same way I did that morning by the lake, when Sabrina led me to Harper’s limp body lying helpless by the fire. The rest of the passengers were in trouble the second we crashed. Harper was also banged up, but she was fine.

Until I asked her to swim out there and risk her life.

This is my fault. She’s going to die because of me.

Finally I force myself to stand up and turn away.

Sabrina is at the back, talking quietly with Yul. “Have you seen Harper?” I ask her.

“Yes.” She just stares at me.

“Well, what’s the prognosis? What’re you doing for her?”

“I’m currently monitoring her.”

“That’s it?”

“She has an infection. I’m waiting to see if her body can fight it off.”

“It can’t.” I struggle to keep my voice level. “Her forehead’s as hot as a firecracker.”

“A positive sign. Her body’s immune system is mounting a robust response.”

“That robust response isn’t enough. She’s getting sicker every day. She didn’t even wake when I shook her. She needs antibiotics.”

Sabrina steps closer and lowers her voice. “We’re almost out of antibiotics. I’m rationing them, saving them for critical cases.”

“Harper is a critical case.”

“Critical as in life-threatening.”

I shake my head, trying to compose myself. I’m boiling over. The exhaustion, the crappy, shallow sleep, and the stress of the last forty-eight hours are finally getting the best of me. I’m losing control—I can feel it. I fight to keep my voice level, and I’m not sure I succeed.

“Her life wouldn’t be in danger—she wouldn’t even be sick—if she hadn’t gone into that plane and saved those people. We owe it to her to save her life.”

Nothing. No response. My rage simmers.

“Okay, Sabrina, think about what message we’re sending all these people if she dies. Huh? You stick your neck out for someone around here, and when we’re done with you, we’ll leave you for dead. That’s what you’re talking about, and that’s dangerous.”

“If I administer antibiotics to her today, when she doesn’t absolutely need them, it might be a death sentence for someone else. That’s dangerous, too. I’m taking a logical risk to save the most lives. I believe you’re familiar with this concept—you demonstrated it at the lake.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Sabrina. You know that?”

“You’re unable to see this situation objectively. You’re irrational because you’ve formed an emotional bond with Ms. Lane—”

“You know anything about that—forming emotional bonds with people? Or did you read about it in a journal?”

“Your bias is easily demonstrated. William Boyd, in seat 4D, has symptoms worse than Ms. Lane’s. You have yet to ask about Mr. Boyd.”

“William Boyd wasn’t in that plane, drowning. Harper was. Hell, she might have been the one who saved William Boyd in the first place! I asked her to risk her life, and she did. And we,” I almost shout, pointing my finger between Sabrina and myself, “are going to do everything we can to keep her alive.”

“Harper did not save Mr. Boyd. He was in the water, in the line that passed the people from the plane to the shore. But this isn’t about his role in the rescue operation. You haven’t asked about Mr. Boyd because you don’t have an emotional connection to him. You’re not objective, Nick. I am. In fact, for reasons you’ve already alluded to, I’m almost uniquely qualified to make unemotional, logical decisions about the care of these people, maximizing the number of lives saved.”

Hopeless. I’m arguing with a robot. My jaws are clenched so tight it feels like my rear molars might shatter at any second.

“Give me the antibiotics.”

Sabrina stares at me, unflinching.

“You heard me, Sabrina. Hand them over.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re damn right I am. You’re threatening the life of someone I … someone we all owe a huge debt to, and I’m not going to let you. You can play your bizarre medical chess game on somebody else.”

“I knew this moment would come, but I didn’t anticipate it would be from you.”

“What moment?” I look at her, suspicion creeping into me. “What did you do?”

“I’ve hidden the antibiotics, along with all the medicine.”

Of course she has. The rage that has been building inside of me settles into a focused, ruthless calm. I’m almost scared of what I’ll do next.

I turn and march down the aisle, past Bob Ward, who’s got Mike at his side.

“We’re ready, Nick,” he says, but I don’t even look at him.

I pause at Harper’s side, slip my hand into the pocket of her sweat-soaked jeans, and fish out the key I gave her yesterday. In the cockpit, I unlock the box and flip the lid back. Four handguns lie there, stacked at haphazard angles.

I learned how to use a handgun as a kid. Kidnapping is a constant risk for every child who grows up the way I did.

I take the top gun out and weigh it in my hand for a moment, telling myself I’m acclimating to the feel of it, telling myself I can do what I’m contemplating. But as I crouch in the cockpit, holding the handgun, I know I can’t. It’s funny: you can imagine committing a vile act, something completely against your moral code, but only when you physically hold the means to take that action does the decision become real. Only then do you learn what you’re capable of—and I’m not capable of this. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad guy or a good guy.