Thorne did not blink.

“That is an absurd accusation,” he said.

“Then let me have the vial,” I said. “Let me take it to the galley and check the medical kit for an alternative.”

“There is no time for that,” Thorne said.

He raised his right hand, the needle pointing upward.

Malachi reached across the throttle quadrant, his small hand grabbing the doctor’s sleeve.

“Get off me, kid,” Thorne snarled.

He swung his elbow back, striking Malachi’s shoulder.

The boy winced but did not let go of the fabric.

“Don’t touch him!” I screamed.

I lunged forward, throwing my weight against Thorne’s chest.

We crashed against the observer’s jumpseat.

The syringe flew from Thorne’s fingers, bouncing off the metal pedestal and sliding into the dark space beneath the rudder pedals.

“Look what you’ve done,” Thorne said, his voice finally cracking with anger.

“Get out of the cockpit,” I said, pointing toward the door.

“You are endangering every passenger on this aircraft,” he said. “Without my medical assistance, those pilots are dead.”

“I said get out,” I repeated.