It was his father’s personal notebook, filled with handwritten schematics and emergency procedures.

The pages were worn and yellowed at the edges.

“My dad wrote about the oxygen systems on this exact tail number,” Malachi said, his voice steadying.

“We don’t have time for reading, Malachi,” Thorne said, drawing the pale fluid into the syringe.

The plastic plunger clicked as the doctor filled the chamber to the five-milligram mark.

“He said the emergency oxygen lines run directly parallel to the main air conditioning ducts,” Malachi continued.

He flipped a page, his finger stopping on a hand-drawn diagram of the cabin’s ventilation system.

“He wrote that if there was ever a leak in the cargo bay, the secondary heating lines could pull toxic fumes directly into the flight deck.”

“The co-pilot needs this injection now, Grace,” Thorne said, turning his body to block the boy’s view of Danny’s arm.

“Wait,” Malachi said, his voice rising.

He pointed a finger at the paper, then pointed at the small glass vial sitting on the console.

The label on the vial was small, but the printed letters were clear: *CX-442*.