I reached for the deadbolt on the cockpit door and turned it, letting the latch click open.

Gerald Whitmore stumbled inward, nearly falling over the threshold.

“We are dropping!” Whitmore yelled, grabbing the back of the captain’s seat. “The altitude indicator is moving. I can feel it in my ears!”

“Mr. Whitmore, return to your seat,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“No!” Whitmore screamed. “The doctor needs to help them! Why are you fighting him?”

“He was trying to give the co-pilot a drug that would kill him,” I said.

Whitmore looked at Thorne, then at me, his mouth hanging open.

“That’s crazy,” Whitmore said. “He’s a renowned specialist. I read about him in the flight lounge.”

“He has the wrong medicine,” Malachi said from the pilot’s seat.

The boy was looking at the primary flight display.

His hands were hovering just inches from the yoke.

“Grace,” Malachi called out, his voice small. “The nose is dipping again. The autopilot isn’t holding the altitude.”

I stepped past Thorne, ignoring his glare, and stood behind Malachi.

The digital horizon on the screen was tilting slowly to the left.