“The black toggle under the red guard,” he said.

“Flip it.”

I reached up. My hand was shaking.

I lifted the plastic guard and flicked the switch.

The horn stopped, leaving only the sound of the wind screaming around the cockpit glass.

“Five hundred feet,” the automated voice called out.

The runway rushed toward us through the rain.

The ocean was just off our left wing, gray and wild with whitecaps.

“Dr. Thorne,” I said, looking down.

The doctor was staring at his phone again.

Another message had come in.

The light from the screen illuminated his face.

He looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“We are going to crash,” Thorne said.

“Not if Malachi can help it,” I said.

“He’s twelve,” Thorne said.

“He’s a twelve-year-old child.”

“He’s the only one flying this plane,” I said.

“Four hundred feet,” the computer said.

The crosswind hit us again, harder this time.

The left wing dipped toward the water.

Malachi hauled the yoke to the right.

His small arms were tense, the veins standing out.