Page 127 of Damaged

“Nope,” Manny says. I can tell from how breathy his words are that he’s scared shitless.

Christ, what have I done?

If I live, I’m not going to tell Sophia about this one. It would probably just piss her off, but right now, under the spell of love, I would rather risk my life than fuck up this evening with complete certainty.

I see the runway at nearly the same time as the runway lights. It’s covered in a thin film of snow. I can see the flash of emergency lights. They have the airport’s fire trucks waiting to extinguish us should we burst into flames.

Now this is stupid. I brace myself as the plane touches down. It does so gently. Quietly. It feels smooth and normal, but then Manny speaks.

“Oh… Shit.”

I’m about to ask what the problem is, when suddenly I feel us start to slide. The back of the plane is swinging around to the front.

We’re going to flip.

I see Sophia in the orchestra hall, realizing too late that there were worse things to put her through than being stood up tonight.

I just hope the explosion of jet fuel makes it quick. I close my eyes tight, expecting the weightlessness of the flip, but instead I’m thrown against my seat. There’s a crunch of snow as the plane slides into the unplowed median of the runway and comes to a lurching stop.

Manny frantically flips a few buttons on the instrument panel, kills the engines, and leans back heavily in his seat.

I slap his knee a couple times, and then we’re both laughing.

“Man. You’re still going to be late. They’re going to need a tug to get us out of here,” Manny says.

“Can you do me one last favor?” I say, unbuckling my seat belt and standing.

“What’s that?”

“Tell them I got claustrophobic.”

“Will do, Mr. Callaway.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Manny.”

I go to the main cabin door and open it. The door opens down, becoming a short flight of stairs, but from the way we’re angled into the median, they don’t reach the ground.

I jump several feet from the bottom into the snow. I fish my passport from my breast pocket and hold it up as I walk towards the fire truck that comes wailing to a stop.

Good thing I didn’t try this trick in Germany. The French Canadians seem fairly laid-back about the whole thing. The fire team’s SUV pulls up a couple minutes later and, after only a brief discussion, takes me to customs.

I text Sophia in the back seat.

Me:I’ll be there in a half hour.

I hold my phone in my fist, waiting for a response, but I have to put it away as I walk inside and to the customs booth.

There’s only one agent working. It’s not the same one from this morning. It’s a younger woman with her hair up in a tight black bun. She’s pretty but looks deathly serious.

“What flight did you come in on?” she asks in English. Her brows wrinkled in confusion.

“It was private. Tail number N898VT.”

She juts her chin out at me. “The one that just crashed?”

“It was more of a slide, really. Are they calling it a crash?” I give her my most devilish grin. Sophia would certainly forgive me. The woman can’t help but grin back, but she looks away from me.

“How long are you staying in the country?”

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