The floor beneath our feet groaned, a low, structural vibration that rattled the metal meal carts in the galley outside the door.

“It is safe if we keep the speed under control,” Malachi said. “Grace, read me the airspeed.”

“Two hundred and seventy knots,” I said, squinting at the primary flight display.

“We need to keep it there,” Malachi said. “If we go too fast, the wings will overstress. If we go too slow, we’ll stall in the clouds.”

Dr. Thorne took a step toward the center pedestal, his hand resting on the back of the captain’s empty seat.

“The boy is twelve years old, Grace,” Thorne said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. “You cannot let him fly this aircraft. We are going to crash into the ocean.”

“He knows more about this plane than any of us,” I said, stepping between Thorne and the controls. “Get back to the cabin, Doctor.”

“The passengers are unconscious,” Thorne said. “The air is toxic. If we don’t level off, the pressure change will kill them anyway.”