My eyes remained glued to the TV for hours, devouring every little morsel the news offered: There were actually five crew onboard, not six. Jake Weston was the lead pilot, not Pilot-Non-Flying. The Coastguard had successfully helped seventy percent of the passengers onto its boats for treatment of hypothermia, shock, and severe injuries. No crew members were being reported alive.

I watched until the evening hours and not a single crew member was reported alive...

OFFICIAL ELITE AIRWAYS PRESS RELEASE

It is with sincere sadness that we offer our condolences to the family members of the eight passengers who succumbed to their injuries shortly after the water ditching of Flight 491.

We would also like to offer our prayers to the lead captain of Flight 491, Jake Weston, and first officer, Ryan Matthew Clarkson, who were seriously injured in their efforts to get every passenger off the plane.

GATE C52

JAKE

New York (JFK)

My head was throbbing and my throat felt as if someone had set it afire.

I attempted to sit up, but I couldn’t move. My limbs felt too heavy, and as I strained to open my eyes, I saw Gillian sitting next to me.

Even though she was sleeping, her face was red and her cheeks were wet. Her hand was resting on my chest, and she was holding a collectible Coke can in her lap.

I glanced at the other side of the room and saw hundreds of flower arrangements, balloons, and “Get Well Soon” posters. I attempted to sit up once more, but the more I tried, the wearier I became, so I shut my eyes and sighed.

I wasn’t sure how long I lay like that, but the next thing I heard was my father’s voice.

“Gillian?” he called. “Gillian?”

“Yes?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“You’ve been here two weeks straight. Go home and get some rest.”

“No, thank you.”

“Maybe he’ll wake up for more than a few seconds tomorrow,” he said. “You need to take care of yourself while we wait.”

“I said, no thank you. I’m okay. Trust me.” She sounded sincere, but even in my state, I knew she was lying.

“With all due respect, Gillian,” he said, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

“Then who stays here? You? He hates you.”

“I don’t think you’re in his best graces either right now, Taylor G.”

Silence.

“Get some rest for two days and come back. If he wakes up between now and then, you’ll be my first call.” He actually sounded believable. “And you can stay at the hotel across the street. I already set up a room in your name.”

She sighed.

“And thank you very much, in advance, for continuing to stay mum on your visit here, Taylor G.”

She didn’t respond to that, and the next thing I felt were her lips pressed against my forehead. I heard her whisper, “I love you” and then I couldn’t force myself to stay awake another second.

***

Weeks later...

“Sir! Sir!” A nurse walked into my room. “Sir, get back in the bed. Now.”

“I’d rather not.” I looked out the window. “Where’s the doctor? Tell him I’d like to be cleared today.”

She walked over to me and crossed her arms. “Mr. Weston, I’m going to ask you very nicely to get back into your bed.”

“Okay.” I remained by the window. “I’ll wait for you to actually ask.”

“Mark!” She yelled. “Mark!”

Within seconds, a bulky man dressed in all white entered the room.

“You, again?” he asked, shaking his head at me. “Please don’t make me pick you up and put you in your bed. I’ll be forced to use a hand strap on one of your arms this time, sir.”

Groaning, I rolled my eyes and walked over to the bed, slipping under the thin sheets.

“Thank you.” The nurse smiled at Mark, then scowled at me.

“According to your chart, you’ve suffered a laceration to the head, hypothermic shock, severe right ankle sprain, and two broken fingers on your left hand. Do you honestly think you’re clear to go today?”

“It clearly doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It doesn’t.” She smiled and checked my vitals. “You have a visitor. Are you up to seeing anyone?”

“Depends on who it is.”

“It’s a Mr. Pearson,” she said, quickly lowering her voice. “The CEO of your airline, I believe.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Is that a yes or a no for him?” she asked.

“He can come in.”

“Alright, great.” She took my temperature and headed to the door. “Do not get out of that bed again, Mr. Weston.”

I stared at the doorway and within seconds my father appeared, looking nothing like himself. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and the usual look of confidence in his eyes was nowhere to be found.

“Why does it look like you were in a plane crash?” I asked.

“Funny.” He smiled, walking over to me. “I take it you haven’t looked at yourself in a mirror lately.”

“I will once they take the bandages off my head.”

He laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure your growing fan-club outside will continue to love you either way...I just need five minutes.”

“You said that last time and it turned into thirty.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled a packet of paper from his pocket, tossing it to me.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the piece that’s going to run in The New York Times next week. I wanted you to see it first.”

“I’m not taking over your airline, so if this is your sad attempt to get me to think about that again, it’s still a no.”

“Jake—”

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did with Riley, I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my mother,” I said, looking him straight in the eye—wondering if he was worth the rest of what I wanted to say. “But I can forgive you for being you. I don’t want your airline, though.”

“I’m not asking you to think about anything. I just want you to read the paper.” He leaned over me and hugged me against my will. “I’m sorry, and I always will be...Remember that.” He looked at me one last time and left the room.

For the second time in months, I found myself face to face with some shit I didn’t really want to read, but curiosity won me over, yet again. I flipped open the packet and couldn’t force myself to look away from the article’s headline if I tried:

The Truth About Flight 1872 & How I “Lost” My Wife, How I Really Built Elite Airways, and Why I Want My Oldest Son Back.

GATE C53

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

“How do you think the literature lovers of America would feel if they knew that their latest beloved novelist was a slob?” Meredith asked as she drew the curtains in my bedroom, letting what was left of the sunset seep through my windows.

“I’m not a slob.” I groaned, tossing the latest copy of The New York Times across my bed. “I’m just depressed.”