He used his right hand to throw the aircraft into a sharp left bank.

The horizon tilted violently.

“Malachi!” Whitmore screamed.

“Hold on!” Malachi yelled.

He reversed the bank, throwing the plane to the right.

The cabin behind us filled with the sound of loose items sliding and crashing.

A warning horn began to blare in the cockpit.

*SINK RATE. SINK RATE.*

“Come on,” Malachi muttered.

He looked at the landing gear indicator.

The right main gear symbol was still flashing amber.

“It’s stuck in the well,” Malachi said.

“The wind is keeping the door pressed shut.”

“We have to go faster to force it, but if we go faster, we can’t stop on the wet runway.”

“How much runway do we have?” I asked.

“Nine thousand feet,” Malachi said.

“With a wet surface and no reverse thrust on engine two, we need every inch.”

“Why no reverse thrust?” Whitmore asked.

“The hydraulics are gone on that side too,” Malachi said.

The boy was sweating.

The drops were rolling down his forehead into his eyes.

I reached over with my sleeve and wiped his face.