The door swung open an inch, letting in the low, pressurized hum of the passenger cabin.

I turned my head, my hand still gripping Malachi’s cold shoulder.

Through the gap, I saw the pale, sweat-streaked face of Sarah, one of my junior flight attendants.

Her eyes were wide, darting from me to the slumped figure of Captain Pierce, and then to the dead instrument panels.

“Grace,” she whispered, her voice cracking over the cabin noise. “The air vents in coach. They’re blowing something grey. People are coughing.”

Dr. Thorne step-slid toward the door, his hand still holding the ticking device.

“Keep it closed,” Thorne said, his voice flat and calm.

I stepped between Thorne and the door, my back pressing against the cold metal frame.

“Sarah, go back to the forward galley,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Get the portable oxygen bottles. Now.”

“But Grace—”

“Go,” I repeated, firmer this time.

I pulled the door shut, forcing the latch to click back into place, locking us inside once more.

The air inside the cockpit felt thick, smelling of ozone and the faint, bitter scent of the captain’s spilled coffee.