At the same instant, the crosswind caught the right wing and lifted it.

The plane tilted to the left.

The left main tires hit the concrete with a deafening screech.

The aircraft bounced, then settled onto the left side.

“Hold the wing up!” Malachi screamed.

“Keep the wheel to the left!”

I slammed the yoke all the way to the left, fighting the pressure.

The right main gear was still hovering inches above the ground.

The amber light on the panel was still flashing.

“It’s not locking,” I cried.

“It has to,” Malachi said.

He eased the right wing down slowly.

The right tire touched the runway.

There was a horrible, grinding sound of metal scraping against metal.

The right side of the plane dipped lower than the left.

“The gear is collapsing!” Whitmore shrieked.

He threw himself onto the floor, covering his head.

The plane began to veer to the right, toward the grass.

Malachi fought the rudder pedals, his small feet stomping them to the floor.

“Hold it!” he yelled.

“Grace, pull the engine fire switches!”

“Which ones?”

“The two red handles in the middle!”