He stared at Malachi’s small back, at the way the boy’s shoulders were shaking under his blue hoodie.

“He’s… he’s just a child,” Gerald whispered, his voice suddenly losing its aggressive edge, replaced by a hollow, childlike despair.

“Where is Owen? Where is the co-pilot?”

“They’re unconscious,” I said, slowly releasing my grip but keeping my hands on his shoulders.

“The air in the cabin is poisoned, Gerald. You need to sit down and hold onto this seat.”

A shadow fell over the broken doorway.

I looked up, my hand reaching instinctively for the heavy flashlight housed in the bulkhead bracket.

Dr. Aris Thorne stood in the entrance of the cockpit.

His hair was perfectly combed, and his breathing was slow and regular, unlike Gerald’s frantic gasping.

He wasn’t wearing an oxygen mask.

In his right hand, he held a small, silver canister with a blue nozzle, the kind used for administering emergency asthma medication.

But there was no brand label on it.

“He’s right, Grace,” Dr. Thorne said, his voice incredibly calm amidst the howling wind from the door gap.