Departure (8 page)

About halfway to the octagonal structure, at one of our hourly stops, I look around through the binoculars and spot something else: a stone farmhouse to the south, maybe another ten miles away. I make a note of its position—if the glass structure is a bust, it will be our next stop. I study the house for a few minutes, searching for signs of life, but there's no movement. It looks abandoned to me.

It's later than I had hoped, midafternoon, when we finally get to the glass structure, which is much bigger than it looked from the ridge. It's at least fifty feet high and maybe three hundred feet across. The glass walls are frosted bluish white, and the frame appears to be made of aluminum.

There's no pathway—dirt, paved, or otherwise—leading to or from it. Very odd.

The three of us walk the perimeter, looking for a door. Halfway around, I hear the sound of a seal breaking. A panel rises from the ground toward the ceiling, a frosted glass curtain revealing a spectacle I can barely believe.

The three of us stand there, our eyes wide.

I know this place. I've been here only once in my life, but that day is easily one of my most vivid childhood memories.

I was eight then, and for the entire week before I visited this place, I counted down the days and hours. It wasn't the destination that excited me. It was the chance to take a trip with my father. He was the U.S. ambassador to the United Kingdom at that time, and we didn't spend a lot of time together. That day, though, I felt very close to him.

I remember the drive, the moment I caught my first glimpse of the site. The morning fog still shrouded it, veiling the ancient treasures towering in the green field. I turned the name over in my mind as we drew closer: Stonehenge. Everything about it seemed otherworldly to me.

I was more mesmerized than my peers. To the other kids on the tour, the prehistoric monument was just a bunch of big old rocks in a field. Not to me. And not to my father. To him, it was not only history but inspiration, the symbol of an ideal. Nearly five thousand years ago, its builders had sweated, bled, and sacrificed to preserve their culture and their vision for future generations. That these mysterious people had erected Stonehenge and some part of it still remained to
inspire and inform us, however cryptically, spoke to my father. It was how he saw his own career as a diplomat, I realized that day. He was building his own Stonehenge—America, and specifically its foreign relationships—to help pass down his vision of a better human society, a global one, with freedom and equality at its center. It wasn't that he didn't like me or spending time with me, he just thought his work was more important.

Stonehenge, age eight: that's when I gained a perspective on my relationship with my father that spared me a lot of anguish throughout my childhood. It was a revelation for me, something to hold on to when I found myself wondering why he was never around, why other kids' fathers took so much more interest in them.

But that revelation pales in comparison to the one that confronts me today. Twenty-eight years ago this was a crumbling ruin, chipped away by time and vandals, half the pillars gone, some lying on the ground. But the Stonehenge that towers before me now is no ruin. It looks like it was finished yesterday.

I AM A BOILING BAG OF MEAT. MEAT
soup inside a fragile skin shell.

The fever is consuming me. I've had the flu, and my mum had pneumonia three winters ago. This is neither. This is bad. I'm sick, and scared.

Here inside the first-class cabin, the world around me flickers past in brief glimpses between sleep and foggy awareness.

The doctor's face floats before me.

“Can you hear me, Harper?”

“Yeah.” My voice is raspy, barely audible.

“Your infection is getting worse. It's coming from your leg. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“I cleaned the wound when you came out of the lake, but it's gotten infected. I'm going to give you four ibuprofen, then I'll return shortly and we'll discuss next steps.”

I swallow the tablets and close my eyes. Next steps. That's funny.
Why? Oh, yeah, 'cause I've got a leg injury. At least the best bit of me is still intact.

EVERYTHING STILL HURTS, BUT THE
fever's subsided, and my head is clear. The world is back, and so is the doctor. She turns me to get a better look at my right leg and slides my jeans off. They come off as easily as if they were pajamas.

Dark fluid, black and burgundy, oozes through the white bandage that runs the length of my calf, from just below my knee to my right ankle. The skin around the bandage is puffy and red. I can almost feel myself getting sicker, just looking at it.

My limbs were numb at the end, in the plane, when whatever snagged me dug into my leg, and Nick pulled me free. Now it hurts. I can almost feel the heat rising from it, crawling up my body.

Sabrina stares at the bandage for a long moment, as if she's a human X-ray machine and needs to hold still to capture an accurate image. Then she looks me in the eye.

“You have a severe infection originating at the laceration in your calf. Infection was a risk when you came onto the bank. I cleaned the wound as best I could and bandaged it. Those measures were insufficient. Now we need to make some decisions.”

I don't like the sound of this.

“The next step is for me to clean the wound again and monitor it more closely. Normally you would have been getting antibiotics already, but our supply is very limited. Since your infection is one we can access, we have some chance of countering it without oral antibiotics.”

“I see.”

“If the infection is still advancing by the time the sun sets, we'll have to take a more proactive approach.”

I nod, trying to conceal my growing nervousness.

“At that point, I will remove some of the flesh around the wound and sterilize the area a third time.”

She speaks at length in the same monotone, listing the risks in detail, using scary words like
sepsis
and
gangrene
. The long and short is, if I don't get better today, she's going to remove some part of my leg. Best case: my summer fashion choices will be limited from here
on out. The worst case is . . . a good bit worse. Sabrina ends on the words “permanent loss of mobility.” Then she waits. I wonder what she wants me to say.

“Well, writers don't get out much anyway. Haven't played sports in decades.” So much for reactivating that gym membership when I get back to civilization.

“I've described your situation in detail because I believe every patient is entitled to know the details of their medical status and to be involved in the decisions for their care, when possible. And your situation is unique at present. Nick has been to see me regarding your care. He's been quite insistent that you receive antibiotics immediately. He has enumerated certain . . . consequences—emotional repercussions for him personally and effects these might have on the well-being of the camp at large—should your health worsen.”

Nick Stone cares about me. Now there's something. And something worth getting better for. Not that it's up to me.

Sabrina charges on. It sounds as if she's reading a prepared statement, a speech she's rehearsed a few times. “I've been saving antibiotics for cases of urgent need. My approach is simple: to prolong the lives of as many people as possible, to maximize the number of survivors alive when help arrives.”

That's what it's about, then: Sabrina would rather see ten peg-leg survivors flown out of here than only five walk away whole. She's right; their loved ones would agree. I'll bet my mum is one of them.

Sabrina's still barreling on, working up to something, by the sounds of it. “However, given Nick's recent assertions, which I suspect are exaggerated at best and likely false, I face the dilemma of whether to administer antibiotics to you at this juncture. If I'm wrong, and Nick was being sincere, not treating you would endanger the well-being of the camp at large.”

“I see.” Again I wonder what she wants me to say. She's put no question to me, yet she hovers there by my leg, silently prompting me. She's not good at this part, the talking bit, that's for certain.

“Normally at this point, you would be receiving inpatient care, likely IV antibiotics. All we have are oral antibiotics, and while they might help, I'm not certain they will be one hundred percent effective.
As I said, I'd prefer to save them for patients where there's no access to the infection—and, frankly, where they're needed to prolong a life. For individuals with lower body mass, our limited doses will go further, have a more significant effect.”

Lower body mass. “Children.”

“Correct.”

I get it now. She needs a decision from me—and my help with Nick if it comes to that. So as it turns out, my getting better really is up to me.

Lives and limbs are at stake, no matter who gets the antibiotics. I ask myself what decision I can live with, but it's more complex than that. Down one road, I might not live at all. That's the test, isn't it? I can make a decision I can't live with and save my own life or make one I can live with and risk death.

Sabrina's looking at me, waiting.

I have a plethora of shortcomings. But if you ask any of my friends what single fault most holds me back in life, they'll all tell you the same thing: decisions. Especially about my own well-being. Career decisions. Dating decisions. Where to live. Where to work. When it comes to making calls about my own future, I'm the worst. At least I'm quite capable of picking out an outfit and settling on where to eat (I sometimes find it helpful to state some positives about myself when facing a challenge or major decision). Oh no, should not have thought decision; it's too close to the Decision. Must focus.

My first instinct now is to panic, and panic about my panicking, until I suffer a full-blown decision-dysfunction breakdown. I mean, no pressure: what I say will only determine whether I lose life and/or limb or whether some cute kid down the aisle does. But as the seconds tick by, the panic never comes, only a clear, confident answer that fills me with a reflective calm. No second-guessing, no anguish. Weird. I'll have to sort that out later, when a neurotic yet seemingly competent doctor isn't crouching next to my rotting leg.

“I agree with you, Sabrina. Other people need the antibiotics more. When Nick comes back, I'll tell him that you offered and I refused.”

“Thank you.” Sabrina exhales and sits back against the galley wall, looking even more exhausted than before. I think this conversation was very hard for her.

I have to say, right now, what I'd really like is to be certain that Dr. Sabrina knows her stuff. I want to know that she sees my kind of injury quite regularly, that she's remedied this sort of thing a hundred times.

I take a deep breath. “What sort of doctor are you, Sabrina?”

She hesitates.

“You see a lot of infections? Trauma? Do a good bit of wound care?” I prod, getting more nervous with each word.

“Not routinely . . .”

“Right. Well, then. What do you do routinely?”

“I work in a lab.”

Blimey.

“But I had extensive experience with trauma medicine during my medical school training.”

Blimey, blimey, double, triple, quadruple blimey. You know what I remember from university?

Very.

Very.

Little.

I nod as if she's just related today's weather forecast and tell myself that Sabrina Whatever Her Last Name Is just happens to be the number-one trauma surgeon in this makeshift hospital wing, that she is the very best medical care available at the present moment. Must have confidence in her.

She begins peeling away the white tape at the edge of the bandage. “Are you ready to begin?”

Who could say no to that? I mean, she works in a lab.

MEDIEVAL. THAT'S HOW I WOULD
describe what just transpired here in seat 1D of the crashed remains of Flight 305. Medieval in the extreme. I've heard people say the treatment was worse than the disease, and now I know full well what they were talking about.

Pain courses through my body, a fire hose I can't shut off.

It's amazing how exhausting pain is. Sabrina says I need to move every so often to keep some blood circulating, but I just can't right now.

In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll walk away from this place at all.

IT'S LATE AFTERNOON WHEN I WAKE UP, DRENCHED
and achy. I feel sick all over, but I know I need to move, get some blood circulating. I think I can make a lap around the cabin. Or hospital. Whatever this is now. I push myself up, balance for a moment, testing the leg, and then start out down the dimly lit aisle. Passengers are crammed into almost every seat, most asleep or passed out. A few follow me with their eyes, but on the whole there's very little movement or sound. It's eerie, almost like the moment right after the crash.

I get ten paces before I'm winded and have to lean against a seat in business class, panting, and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

A kid in the seat to my right slowly opens his eyes. I've seen him before, I realize. He was the last kid Mike and I pulled off the sinking plane. I unbuckled his seat belt, and Mike carried him out. He's black, about eleven, I would guess—and he's at death's door. He's sweating, but it's the look in his eyes that makes my heart sink.

“What you in for?” he asks, trying and failing to form a grin.

I shuffle forward and slip into the business-class seat across the aisle. “Bum leg. You?”

“Pneumonia.” He coughs into his hand and lets his head fall back.

Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then Sabrina is leaning over him, a single oblong white pill in her outstretched hand, a bottle of water—no doubt from the lake, boiled by the fire—in the other. “Antibiotics,” she whispers. “Quickly, please.”

He swallows the pill, and Sabrina's eyes meet mine. I give her a single slow nod, wondering how well she'll understand. She nods back.

The last of the antibiotics could buy enough time to save this kid's life. Maybe a few others. I felt pretty sure before, but I'm certain now: I made the right decision.

“You're British?” the kid asks.

“Yeah.”

“I like your accent.”

“I like yours.” He's American, from the North, at a guess. “Where you from?”

“Brooklyn.”

“I wouldn't mind living in Brooklyn.”

“Kidding, right?”

“Nope. Brooklyn's a good place for writers.”

“You a writer?”

“Yep.”

“Like a journalist?”

“I was. I write books now.”

“What kind?”

“Biographies.”

“You like it?”

“I liked it at first.”

He's racked by coughs again. Finally the fit passes, and he closes his eyes. Just when I think he's slipping off to sleep, he asks, “You famous?”

“Nah. But I interview famous people. I just write the book, and it gets published under their names.”

“Like they wrote it?”

“Yep.”

“That sucks.”

Leave it to a kid to sum up the state of my career so accurately in two words. And leave it to an adult to rationalize it in three: “It's a living.”

“Ever think about doing something else?”

“I have. A lot, lately.”

“My mom reads a lot of books. Biographies especially. Says it helps with her work.”

“Yeah? What sort of work does your mum do?”

“Lawyer. She's with me on the trip. Can't find her, though. Lot of people are still missing from the crash.”

I nod, though I know he can't see me. I can't find the words. I remember the seconds before I first saw this kid, remember touching the cold flesh of the woman's neck beside him before reaching for his neck, feeling the warmth, and ripping his seat belt free. God bless the person with the presence of mind to tell him people are still missing. “Well, she's no doubt very, very proud of you for being so brave.”

A silence follows. I'm about to get up when he speaks again. “I'm Nate.”

“Harper. You should get your rest, Nate.” He's asleep before I finish the sentence. All of a sudden I feel exhausted myself, too tired to even get up.

I AWAKE TO THE CLATTER
of rain pelting the plane, so loud it sounds like hail.

The fever's back, stronger than ever.

Nate is sleeping right through the storm, his head hanging awkwardly to one side in a way that scares me.

Struggling to my feet, I reach across the aisle. My hand almost recoils when it meets his burning flesh. He's in trouble.

I look around, searching for Sabrina, with no luck. I shuffle forward to first class, but she's not there either. I collapse into my seat, a wave of pain shooting through my body. Where is she? I'll rest just a minute, then go find her.

Only the faintest light filters through the tiny oval windows. I can't tell if it's after sunset or just dark because of the storm. The dense forest canopy blots out most of the daylight even in good weather.

As I sit, the rain's cadence increases by the second, like a sound track slowly being turned up. A long howl of wind joins the tapping, its hollow sucking sound growing louder, overtaking the rain. It feels like I'm sitting in a wind tunnel with a hailstorm outside.

At the rear of the plane, the gust finally bowls the stacked luggage over, sending sick passengers scrambling.

I close my eyes. The relentless tapping on the metal roof is disorienting, a kind of white noise. Time jumps forward again.

When I open my eyes, Sabrina is hovering over me.

I clear my throat, but my voice comes out scratchy and faint. “Nate. The kid in business—”

“I'm doing what I can for him.” She motions to my leg. “I need to have a look.”

She's tired. Gone is the poker face she's worn for days. I can read the gravity of the situation on her face, even before the words spill mechanically out of her mouth.

“We need to move to the next phase of treatment. We have two options: be conservative and remove less flesh, or be aggressive, which has a higher chance of stopping the infection. Being conservative now may mean taking more of the leg later if the procedure is unsuccessful. However, taking more flesh than necessary now will have lasting consequences after rescue. There are risks and benefits to both courses of action. You need to decide. You have fifteen minutes to think about it, while I make the rounds and prepare.”

She leaves, and I slump back into the chair. Decisions.

My nemesis.

Minutes pass like hours. Vanity or survival? Is there even a chance of survival now?

Through my fever haze, I'm barely able to follow what happens next. The outer door flies open, and people pour in, survivors from the lakeside. The first is hurt, covered in blood. What happened? A lightning strike? A fallen tree?

One by one, more people limp in, some bleeding, some coughing, others hobbling along for no apparent reason. Unharmed survivors guide them, shouting for help.

They're looking for Sabrina frantically, but they can't find her. She
has to be here—I just saw her, and the exit's been closed the entire time. Did I pass out again? I don't think so.

There's only one place she can be: the cockpit. I try to tell them, but my voice is so weak that I can't even hear it myself over the storm and the commotion. I reach for a man rushing by, but he brushes past, ignoring me.

Finally I rise and limp toward the cockpit, steadying myself on the galley wall. I'm about to knock on the closed steel door when I hear voices—faint but combative—inside.

“I want to know everything you know.” Sabrina.

“I've told you everything.” It's a man's voice, but I can't place it.

“You knew.”

“That the plane would crash? Sabrina, you think I would board a plane that I knew was going to crash?”

“You knew
something
would happen.”

“I didn't!”

“Why were you going to London?”

“I don't know. They said I'd get instructions when I arrived, same as you.”

“Where are we?”

“I swear, I don't know!”

“Can you contact them?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Try, Yul. You have to.”

“Are you crazy?”

“We're out of food and medications.”

“What if
they
caused the crash?”

“Then we're already at their mercy—it makes no difference. Contact them. It's our only option.”

The cockpit door opens suddenly, and I'm staring directly at Sabrina and the young Asian guy.