The numbers on the altimeter were clicking downward.

34,800 feet.

34,700 feet.

“Why is it doing that?” I asked.

“The thrust levers are uneven,” Malachi said. “Dad’s book says if the engines aren’t balanced, the autopilot will eventually disconnect to prevent a stall.”

“Can you fix it?” I asked.

“I have to adjust the levelers,” he said.

His small fingers reached for the two large black handles in the center console.

“Don’t touch those,” Thorne said from behind us. “If you touch those, we will nose-dive.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” I said, though my stomach was turning over.

“He is twelve years old, Grace,” Thorne said. “You are letting a child fly a twin-engine widebody over the ocean.”

“My dad taught me,” Malachi said.

He pulled the left thrust lever back a fraction of an inch.

The deep whine of the engine changed pitch.

The vibration through the floorboards eased slightly.

The digital horizon began to level out.

“See?” Malachi said, his breath coming in quick gasps. “It’s balancing.”

I looked down at Captain Pierce in the left seat.

His head was slumped against the side window.