Page 21 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Passenger still breathing. Debatable if that’s a win.
My fingers find Vegas, my lucky snow globe, somehow wedged between the seats. The tiny plastic dancers still twirl intheir glittery snow, unfazed by our dramatic landing. At least someone’s having a good time.
Mr. Perfect hasn’t moved or spoken since I told him about the uncertain rescue. He just...stares. At nothing. His perfect hair sticks up at odd angles, his perfect suit wrinkles in all the wrong places, and there’s a cookie crumb on his collar. The silence makes my skin crawl.
“You know,” I say, because apparently near-death experiences don’t cure verbal diarrhea, “for someone who just survived a crash landing, you’re taking this remarkably well.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. If looks could kill, I’d be a Bailey-flavored popsicle right now.
“Or not.” I backtrack, fidgeting with my snow globe. “We’ll just sit here in silence, then. Like frozen statues. Fun.”
The radio’s silence mocks me as I press every button for the hundredth time. Static hisses and pops, setting my teeth on edge. At least the emergency beacon keeps beeping away, like a tiny electronic heartbeat saying, “Not dead yet, not dead yet.”
“Help will come,” I say, trying to inject some cheerfulness into my voice. “Eventually.”
Mr. Perfect maintains his impression of an ice sculpture. The only sign he’s alive is the slight tremor in his hands.
The temperature’s dropping fast. I can see my breath now, little puffs of white in the dimming light.
“Um, you might want to put on something warmer.” I gesture at his fancy suit, which costs more than my flight school tuition. “Your suit isn’t Alaska-in-winter appropriate. Unless you’re going for the frozen CEO look.”
I pull the emergency kit from its compartment beneath my seat. The familiar red box with its faded white cross has seen better days, but what’s inside matters most. I snap open the latches and inventory our survival chances.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” My hands rummage through the contents. “Two flashlights—one’s got a crack but still works. Emergency flares. First aid kit. Space blankets. Some protein bars that expired... Well, let’s not look at the date. And—ah!” I pull out a massive orange jacket that makes me look like a traffic cone. “This should fit even over your fancy suit.”
The jacket unfolds like a neon parachute, its reflective stripes catching what little light remains in the cabin. It’s at least two sizes too big for me, designed to fit over bulky winter clothing or, in this case, a very expensive suit.
“Here.” I toss it to him. “It’s not Armani, but it beats hypothermia.”
He holds it like it might bite him. “This is...very orange.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point of emergency gear. Being visible. You know, so rescue teams can find us before we become fancy ice sculptures?”
Reaching behind my seat, I grab my coat. Thick and puffy. Perfect for not dying in Alaska. The synthetic fabric makes that swishy noise I hate, but right now it’s better than the crushing silence. The thick gloves slide over my frozen fingers, the leather rough against my skin.
I grab the larger of the two flashlights and test it. The beam cuts through the dim cabin, steady and bright. Good. The spare goes into my pack along with the protein bars and a handful of chemical heat packs.
Everything we’ll need if the rescue takes longer than expected. Or if the storm gets worse. Or if bears—no, don’t think about bears.
The plane creaks, metal contracting in the cold. My teeth chatter. The smoke smell burns my nose, the wind howls through the cracks, and somewhere in the distance, a bird screams.
I need to move. Need to do something before my brain short-circuits.
“Look,” I say, flicking on the flashlight, “you can stay here and judge my fashion choices, or you can help me figure out why there’s smoke coming from the engine. Your call.”
He pulls on the orange jacket with a grimace that almost makes me laugh. Almost. “I assume you have a plan beyond ‘stare at the smoking thing’?”
“Always. Step one: don’t die. Step two: figure out steps three through ten.”
The cold hits like a slap when I crack open the door. Snow swirls in, catching in my eyelashes, making everything blur. Mr. Perfect stands behind me, so close that his fancy cologne mixes with the smoke and pine needles.
“Stay close,” I tell him, “and watch your step.”
The ground looks a lot further away from up here. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat, a sharp reminder of our less-than-graceful landing.
The snow swirls up, making everything seem soft and fluffy. I know better. There’s probably ice under there, waiting to make this whole situation even more fun.
“Allow me to assist,” Mr. Perfect says, reaching for my arm. His cologne wafts up.
