Fearless Read Free Page A

not scared, but angry: “Mommy, my ears are hurting!” Neither mother answered her; they had their eyes on the co-pilot, who moved down the other aisle at a faster pace than Max’s.
    “Tell me we’re okay,” one of the mothers said to the co-pilot as he passed.
    The co-pilot smiled and winked but he said nothing.
    At the co-pilot’s failure to reassure, one mother cursed. The other winced, pulled one of the blond boys to her chest, and hugged him hard.
    It was heartbreaking. Max was angry that God had made this choice, when he could have picked out a planeload of rich people, smashed the Concorde into the Savoy Hotel, for example, instead of killing a bunch of kids put on planes by parents meeting a tight budget.
    Max copied the co-pilot and used the headrests as crutches, alternately placing a hand on the next forward one as he moved down the aisle. The plane had definitely lost some part that lent it stability, something roughly equivalent to a car’s shock absorbers. Either that or they had turned onto a poorly maintained paved road of the air with nothing but bumps and potholes. Insulation seemed to have been lost all over: the noise from the two remaining engines was fierce. Max’s muscles clenched against the insecure machine, especially his legs: their springs were fully contracted, prepared to make a great leap. Don’t fight it, he lectured his body, and consciously tried to relax them, allowing all his weight to settle into his feet before he took the next step.
    Jeff was out of his seat. He had gotten one of the blankets (vomited out of the gaping overhead compartments by the dozens) and wrapped it around his waist. As Max reached him he understood what his partner was doing: Jeff was wriggling out of his soiled underwear and pants.
    “Can you find my bag?” Jeff demanded. “Get me the dungarees.”
    Max had to open their compartment to get Jeff’s overnight—theirs was one of the few that had remained shut. He dropped Jeff’s bag on the seat. “Get it yourself,” he said, still furious at him for insisting they fly this deathtrap.
    “Sir!” the injured flight attendant called out from the seat where Max had put her. She still had a tiny drink napkin, completely soaked with her blood, pressed against the cut on her temple. “Sir!” she insisted sternly to Jeff. “The captain has put on the seat-belt sign. You should be seated.”
    “Are you nuts?” Jeff answered her.
    “She’s hurt,” the elderly man next to her explained.
    Max went past Jeff and stopped at the flight attendant’s seat. He didn’t want to watch Jeff change his clothes, although he wondered what he was going to do with the soiled pants.
    “How are you doing?” Max asked Stacy, after checking her badge and verifying that was her name.
    “You should be seated, too,” Stacy answered. She removed her hand to take a look at the napkin. Only half of the tissue came away. The rest stuck to her temple. Stacy stared at what she held of the bloody paper, too saturated to be of any further use.
    “I don’t have any more,” the older male passenger commented and gestured at several soaked cocktail napkins tossed onto the floor.
    “Remove all sharp objects from your clothes. Pens, combs. Also take off your shoes and eyeglasses,” Stacy said, her eyes on the bloody tissue, squinting and blinking, trying to focus. “The flight attendants will gather them.”
    “Un huh,” Max said. He picked up a fallen pillow, removing the pale blue cover, and tore it up. The muscular effort of ripping the fabric was satisfying. Activity soothed his nerves: helping with the cart and touching the boy’s head had also made him feel good. He was able to fashion a crude bandanna. He tied it around her head, covering the wound.
    While he tied it their eyes were only a few inches apart. He studied the tiny blond hairs of her mustache and wanted to kiss her lips, painted a brilliant red, but again he was sad to be feeling sexy.
    “Why doesn’t