It was incredibly cold, carrying the sharp, salty scent of the northern ocean below.

I inhaled deeply.

My lungs burned, but the sweet, chemical fog in my brain began to lift immediately.

“It’s working,” I gasped.

Behind me, Gerald let out a loud sob, drawing in huge, desperate breaths of the cold air.

First Officer Cole groaned again, his eyes fluttering open.

“Air,” Cole whispered. “Clean air.”

“Leveling off at nine thousand feet,” Malachi announced.

He pushed the thrust levers forward.

The deep, comforting roar of the engines returned, the sound stabilizing as the aircraft leveled out.

The grey clouds parted.

Through the windshield, I could see the dark, white-capped waves of the Atlantic Ocean churning beneath us.

We were low. Very low.

“Where are we?” Gerald asked, his voice shaking.

“We are off the coast of Ireland,” Malachi said.

He tapped the navigation display.

“We don’t have enough fuel to reach London,” the boy said. “The descent used too much, and the wind is too strong.”

He pointed to a small green symbol on the screen.