Page 19 of Dearly Departed

“Of course I do. I’ve read the safety brochure many times.”

“Okay. Do it.”

“Okay.”

The door is almost above me. I’ve imagined plenty of emergency exits over the years, but in an incredible oversight, I always imagined the plane being flat on a runway or a conveniently cleared field.

At least I imagined the process itself.

First, I open the window shade and remove the cover over the red T-handle and let it drop silently to the floor.

Next, it’s a matter of pulling down on the handle.

A final glance at Catherine. She’s staring at the window, her jaw set, poised like she’s ready to run.

At least one of us is.

The last step is to pull the window into the plane. There are two handles specifically for this purpose, and I wrap a hand around each one of them and pull.

Nothing happens.

“Is it broken?” Catherine whispers. The silence has thickened since the plane stopped moving, and her whisper hits me like a shout.

“No.” I give it a firmer tug.

Nothing.

The pressure in my skull doesn’t appreciate this activity. Neither do the scratches on my sides. Neither do my abs, which have begun to ache.

I’m getting her off this fucking plane. The only positive at this moment is that the engines aren’t running. I can’t remember when they stopped, but it means we can hear.

It might mean Raymond Harris can hear, too.

I use all my weight against the handles and yank.

The window pulls free. If Catherine’s whisper was a shout, the window coming loose is a bullet. I maneuver it into a different row, my heart pounding.

“You first, kitten.”

I boost Catherine up to the exit. She pulls herself out onto the wing and looks back at me with wide eyes.

“It’s not too far to the ground. You can do it. I’m right behind you.”

“I hate this,” she whispers.

“Me, too.”

Catherine climbs over the empty panel, her hand sliding against the skin. She murmurs something to herself, and a few seconds later there’s a muffled thud.

“Oh my God. Okay. Okay. I’m down here,” she whisper-shouts. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” I whisper back. I don’t think she hears me. It’s not the time to chat, anyway. It’s time to climb.

I get the handles of my bag over my shoulder and climb onto the chair. The angle is miserable. All the angles of this situation is miserable. Gravity wants to pull me to the other side of the plane, but I summon my strength and start to hoist myself out.

The cockpit door opens.

Jesus and fucking Mary and fucking Joseph.