“Grace, check the pitch,” Malachi said, his voice straining.

“It’s zero,” I said, looking at the display. “We’ve stopped descending.”

“We have to go down,” Malachi said. “We don’t have time.”

He took a deep breath, his small chest rising.

“Gerald, let go of the controls,” Malachi said.

“What?” Gerald gasped.

“Let go,” Malachi repeated. “I’ve got it. Just let me have the wheel.”

Gerald took his hands off the yoke as if it had turned to fire.

He pulled his arms back, pressing himself into the corner of the co-pilot’s seat, weeping silently.

Malachi took the full weight of the aircraft.

His small arms tensed, the veins standing out on his wrists.

The yoke began to vibrate, a violent shimmy that shook the boy’s entire body.

He pushed forward, slowly, methodically.

The nose dipped again.

“Minus two degrees,” I read. “Airspeed two hundred and seventy-five.”

“Good,” Malachi muttered. “Just hold it there.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Dr. Thorne was standing near the door, his eyes fixed on the electronics bay hatch.

The hatch was still open, a dark square gaping in the floor.