I saw a flash of lightning illuminate the clouds far below us.

A sudden shudder ran through the airframe.

The floor tilted slightly to the right.

Whitmore slid across the slick metal floor, yelping.

Thorne braced his boots against the center pedestal to keep his balance.

That was my chance.

I lunged for the overhead panel.

My fingers brushed the cool plastic of the handset.

Thorne reacted faster than I expected for a man of his build.

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it back.

I gritted my teeth against the sharp pain.

“I warned you, Grace,” he hissed.

His face was inches from mine, and I could smell the peppermint on his breath.

He shoved me back against the captain’s empty seat.

My shoulder hit the heavy sheepskin cover.

“Malachi, hold the plane steady!” I cried out.

The boy was struggling with the yoke as the turbulence hit us again.

The nose of the Boeing 777 pitched up.

The warning horn began to honk, a low, repetitive *boop-boop-boop*.

“Sinking,” the automated cockpit voice said. “Sink rate.”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Malachi chanted to himself.