Page 7 of Lost in You

Something that looks like a dark blur flies out of the airplane’s exit door, followed by something red.

I get to my knees, planning to stand up, but as soon as I try to bear weight on my left ankle, pain shoots through it and I drop back to my knees. That’s the one I landed on.

My bare hands can’t handle being on the scattering of snow on the ground for long, so I kneel upright, pain shooting through my hip. I see movement in the tree the plane is lodged in—it’s Lincoln, dropping from one branch to another.

He lands on the ground with both feet, then stands upright. The moment his gaze lands on me I hate that I’ll have to admit I jumped.

“You need help getting up?” He comes over to me, a hand extended.

“I hurt my left ankle.” There. I didn’t lie.

“Here, I’ve got you.”

He puts an arm around me, supporting me so I can hop. I cry out with every movement, my entire body sore.

“I’m gonna get you to a safe distance and then I need to run back for the survival and first aid kits.”

“That’s what you threw out of...ow...the plane.”

“Yeah, and there was a moving pad too. Figured we could use it.”

Use it. Because we’re stranded in Alaska and it’s bitterly cold.

“What about Chris?” I lock eyes with him and his shoulders drop.

“If he wasn’t already dead before we crashed, he is now.”

I know he’s right, but it’s still horrifying. Chris was just alive, and now he’s gone. Lincoln and I were lucky to live through the crash, but we’re in the middle of nowhere.

“Someone will know where we crashed.” I say the words out loud, though they’re meant to reassure me more than anything. “Chris put in a flight plan and they’ll know where we went off course.”

An image of our smiling pilot in his Hawaiian shirt makes my heart sink. I’m still too stunned to really feel any of this yet.

“Right.” Lincoln glances down at me. “Sorry about this.”

“Wh--”

He bends and sweeps me into his arms, my breath whooshing out as my feet leave the ground. My ankle bounces as he jogs and it feels like someone’s pounding on it with a sledgehammer.

“Put me down! Dammit, that hurts! I jumped out of the plane and I might have a broken ankle.”

He gently deposits me on the ground, giving me a puzzled look. “You jumped out of the plane?”

Before I can respond, he stands up and turns around. “I have to get the stuff. Don’t move.”

I shake my head because I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I close my eyes, reminding myself we’re going to be rescued. I don’t have any medication to calm my anxiety right now, but my therapist would tell me this anxiety is okay. This is my body’s natural response to what’s happening to me.

A minute later, Lincoln returns and drops the supplies on the ground. He gets down on one knee and looks me over. “Where are you hurt?”

I groan and mutter, “Everywhere.”

He creases his brow. “Is anything bleeding?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Lift your arms.”

I do, and he pats down my arms and sides, then does the same to my legs. “What hurts the most?”

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