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are gliding. Gliding. Gliding. I think we’ve leveled off and may be about to climb again, and I feel one breathless spasm of hope.
    But the plane’s nose touches down, and I’m a crash-test dummy, my head slamming into the seat ahead of me and my limbs tangling. There’s a backlash as my body tries to keep up with the water’s grip on the plane.
    My brain is a Ping-Pong ball inside my skull.
    The water grabs the plane, slowing it down, and I hear the distant but distinct sound of shattering glass, which means that the water will soon be inside the cabin with us—no. The water is already on its way, lashing my face as it streaks toward the back of the plane. It’s needle-sharp with cold and smells like salt and seaweed, rot and filth.
    It is determined to destroy the plane.
    The plane must have a soul, because it fights back. I feel the shudder of aluminum all around me. The creaking groan as metal bends and twists. The violent pops of failing bolts and rivets.
    And above it all, I hear a noise that my ears don’t recognize. Raw and primitive, it sounds like an enraged elephant has mated with a screeching eagle and spawned a T-Rex.
    Even as I unbuckle my seat belt and try to get my feet beneath me, I know that I don’t want to meet the creature that belongs to that sound any more than I want to stay on this plane while it sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
    My fear has me in a stranglehold, but my anger is stronger. And I am royally pissed off even though I’ve spent years in therapy trying (and often failing) to manage my anger. I’m only seventeen years old. I have a lot more living to do.
    I am
not
dying on this plane. No, sir. Not today.

“M aggie!” I call. “An? Answer me!”
    â€œWe’re here.” Maggie touches my leg, and I almost collapse with relief.
    â€œYou okay?”
    I think about that and try to inventory any injuries I may have, but I’m too wired with shock and adrenaline to be able to feel most of my body. My brain, though, feels slow and sludgy, probably because I just banged it on the seat. It feels as though all my neurons have to fight their way through a layer of peanut butter before they can start firing. But, on the other hand, I’m standing up and I can still talk, and that’s probably as good as it’s going to get for the near future.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “You?”
    â€œYeah.” That’s An. “Sammy?”
    A round of violent coughing comes from Sammy’s direction.
    â€œSammy!” cries An.
    â€œYo,” answers Sammy hoarsely. “I’m at the door.”
    â€œWell,
OPEN IT
!” screeches An.
    â€œI’m trying,” says Sammy.
    â€œWe have to get out of here,” Maggie mutters, standing beside me.
    â€œI know,” I say grimly. This is not the time for sitting quietly while we let the adults take charge and formulate a plan. What if they’re too busy trying to keep themselves alive to come for us? No, it’s up to us to save our own butts. And first things first: get out of the plane. Now.
    In the utter darkness, though, it’s not that easy.
    For one thing, the aisle lights are gone even though they’re supposed to glow in emergencies. The exit lights are also gone. I guess they’re only helpful when the plane’s cruising along at thirty-five thousand feet and there’s nothing but sunny skies ahead.
    To make matters worse, icy water is surging up around my ankles now. It’s squelchy and slimy inside my gym shoes and doesn’t want to let go of my feet long enough for me to take a step into the aisle. Not that I could get there anyway. A seething wall of bodies has materialized out of nowhere, blocking me, but I focus on my goal:
    If I can make it to the other side of the row of seats in front of me, to Sammy and the door, I live.
    Maybe.
    My ears are overwhelmed with the sounds of desperation: screaming, sobbing, moaning,