I know the odds of an airplane plummeting out of the sky are incredibly low. I’ve done my research. Compared to other methods, like lightning strikes and shark attacks, there’s almost no risk.

But that information alone does not help. My fears wouldn’t be irrational if they weren’t persistent.

So yeah, I’ve done my research. I know that the safest spot to be in an airplane is in the rear five seats. I know those who sit on the right side are more likely to survive a crash. Neither of those facts can calm the ache I feel in my chest right now, though.

“Hello everyone,” the pilot’s voice says on the speakers, “thank you for choosing Future Air. It is currently 12:34 New York time, which means it’s 6:30 in Egypt. We’re expecting a smooth flight across the Atlantic Ocean, and our total trip will be nearly eleven hours. Turbulence will be at a minimum, so please feel free to get some rest during the first half of the ride. Thank you, and enjoy.”

My nerves are buzzing with activity. How am I supposed to survive a flight this long? I can’t sit still normally for eleven hours.

Yet none of my classmates seem to care. A few of them are already standing and moving, clearly indifferent to the fact that we’re in a pressurized, confined tin can soaring through the sky much higher and faster than humanity was ever meant to be.

I’ve been awake for eighteen hours. My body is the battleground of a war between exhaustion and anxiety, and I’m helpless to intervene. I hope exhaustion wins, and soon.

In times like this, my dad would help distract me by focusing on the things happening around us that were completely normal. I’ve never done it in a situation like this, but it’s worth a shot.

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Six or seven rows ahead, Holly and Cody, the two lovebirds of the class, are huddled together. Like clockwork, one will whisper something, and they’ll both smile. I kind of feel sick looking at it.

Somewhere else, one of my more obnoxious classmates mentions his home life loudly, intentionally annoying whoever’s a seat or two in front of me.

This isn’t helping. I think it’s time to pack it in.

I grab my noise-deadening earmuffs from my backpack, put them on, and let my eyelids naturally close themselves.

Sleep is but a minute away.

Someone taps on my shoulder. I jolt in my seat and find Stacy hovering over me. Reluctantly, I remove the earmuff from one of my ears.

“Sorry, Tes,” she says. “Just wanted to check in, since you’ve been worried about flying all month.”

I give her a thumbs up and a yawn. Thanks for robbing me of the only positive aspect of this situation.

“Okay, sorry for keeping you awake. I’m clocking out, too, so I won’t be bothering you again.”

I give her a second thumbs up and put the earmuffs on properly. Once again, my eyes drift shut, and the world goes dark.

When I return to the real world from my restless nap, I have no way of telling how much time has passed. It feels like hours. Too bad I didn’t bring my watch.

Holly and Cody are trading a notebook back and forth. I can’t imagine what’s going on, and I don’t think I want to. Stacy’s still asleep to my left, as well as a few more of my classmates. I’m almost tempted to fall asleep again, too.

Screw it. Might as well.

Right before my eyes are fully closed, I see a spherical black object crash through a side of the ship up front. Then, we lurch to one side, and oxygen masks drop from the ceiling. I can’t even process what’s happening, because I’m instantly slammed against the wall. I hear a cracking noise, and my vision blurs.

I have to reach the oxygen mask. My hand shakily extends, trying to swipe it. The ship nosedives, plastering my head and arms to my seat.

I have to reach the mask. I have to reach the mask. I have to—