And then we stop.
Rose is bleeding from her forehead, but she ignores it, frozen, like she’s in shock. I unbuckle, and on unsteady legs, climb over her.
“Everyone okay?” I call out, though my attention is fixed on Rose. “You hit your head. You’re bleeding.” I gingerly feel the skin around the cut.
She bats at me. “I’m fine.” Then she starts laughing. Nervous and shaky, the sound bubbles out of her in reedy bursts.
“You’re in shock.”
“You’re in shock!” she shrieks.
Grunting, not wanting to deal with her, I go and check on Hillary and Henry. Hillary stands on wobbly legs, while the cockpit door swings open with violent force.
“Everyone alright?” Henry shouts, louder than necessary considering it’s just the three of us back here.
“We’re okay. What the hell happened?”
Henry shakes his head. “Mechanical failure. I have a call out to the nearest tower. They know we landed safely, could be a while before we get any answers though.”
I turn back to Rose. Blood streams from a cut across her forehead, eyes unfocused and glassy. Everything slows down, my medical training taking over.
“First aid kit. Now!” I bark. Hillary scrambles backward, nearly tripping as she lunges for the emergency supplies. Henry shouts something about air traffic control as he heads back to the cockpit.
Rose tries to stand, swaying dangerously. I press my hands onto her shoulders. “Sit,” I command, forcing her back into the seat.
She slaps my hand away, but I ignore her and press my thumbs to her brows, making her open her eyes wide. Her pupils seem normally reactive. “Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”
“Oh my god, that’s a lot of blood,” Hillary rasps, dropping the first-aid kit on the table and backing away.
I dig through the kit until I find the gauze and press a folded square against the wound. Head wounds bleed like hell—I’m relieved to see it looks worse than it is.
“Hold this,” I tell Rose, and she listens. I pull out an antiseptic wipe and some butterfly bandages. “You might need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches. I’m fine.”
She’s arguing with a fucking cardiothoracic surgeon.
I take the gauze off the wound and wipe the cut with alcohol, leaning closer than necessary. My eyes involuntarily drop to her parted lips. She smells like coffee, cinnamon and cloves.
The door on the side of the plane opens with a whoosh. Henry exits, followed by Hillary. Distant yelling carries across the field—farmers discovering the plane in their backyard. Then it’s just us, alone in this confined space, her eyes locked on mine.
I hold the cut closed, my thumb grazing her temple. The butterfly strip stretches into place under my careful fingers. I linger, studying her flushed face. Her lips. “Anywhere else?”
She grumbles, “I’m fine,” and rises from her seat, swaying slightly. Our bodies align, my hands hover at her waist, ready to catch her if she falls. It takes me an extra second to step back.
We almost died. Rose almost died.
“You aren’t fine, we were just in a plane crash.”
“Forced landing,” she argues.
“I don’t think you have a concussion, but still best to get checked out. I imagine an ambulance will be here soon.”
“Like I said, I’m fine. I’m not going to the hospital over a little cut.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
