“Can we wake him?” I asked, setting the spare oxygen bottle on the floor pedestal.

“His respiratory rate is dangerously low,” Thorne replied, opening his leather medical pouch. “If he stops breathing entirely, we will not be able to resuscitate him without proper equipment.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a small glass vial and a sterile syringe.

The liquid inside the vial was a pale, straw-colored fluid that caught the green light of the instrument panel.

“I am going to administer a heavy respiratory stimulant,” Thorne said, fitting the needle to the syringe. “It should shock his system back into consciousness.”

Malachi did not turn his head, but his eyes darted to the reflection in the dark glass of the side window.

“Is that safe?” Malachi asked, his voice cracking slightly.

“It is necessary, young man,” Thorne said, his tone gentle but firm. “If your father were here, he would tell you that we have no other options.”

Malachi’s right hand slipped off the yoke for a brief second and reached for the thick flight binder on his lap.