“No,” Malachi said, his fingers tracing the red ink in his father’s binder. “My dad wrote it right here. It causes immediate respiratory arrest if they’ve breathed the vapors.”

“Your father was a pilot, young man, not a physician,” Thorne said.

He made a sudden, sharp movement to push my hand away.

I held on, digging my fingernails into his sleeve.

“Let go of me, Grace,” he said.

“Danny is already barely breathing,” I said. “If you give him that, he won’t survive the descent.”

“If I do not give him this, he will die anyway,” Thorne said.

Behind us, the cockpit door rattled.

Gerald Whitmore’s face appeared in the narrow glass window of the door.

His cheeks were flushed red, and he was pounding his fist against the reinforced panel.

“What is going on in there?” Whitmore shouted, his voice muffled by the thick metal. “Why is the plane tilting? Let me in!”

I ignored him, keeping my eyes locked on Thorne.

“You knew,” I said.

The thought hit me like cold water.

“You knew what was in the air system before you even came up here.”