Page 71 of Wreckage

Dad.

I hit dial.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

A sharp sob ripped from my throat, the first one I had let go since the crash, my body curling in on itself as I gasped for breath.

The voicemail beeped, and I sucked in a shaking inhale before speaking.

“Dad.” The word broke, splintering on my tongue.

I swiped at my eyes, forcing myself to push through the tears and get the words out.

“I’m alive. Adrian is alive. Elena is alive.”

I swallowed thickly, my throat aching.

“Dean is dead. He died when the plane went down.”

I clenched my fists, trying to hold it together.

“Please, Dad. I-I don’t know where we are. It’s the mountains—God, I don’t even know what fucking mountains, but we’re running out of food and?—”

I let out a broken sob, my chest heaving.

“We’re running out of hope. Elena is hurt. She is wasting away. We’re trying to ration what food we have, but we won’t last another week if something doesn’t give. I’m trying to be positive, but it’s so fucking hard. Please, Dad. Please come find us.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath shaking, my entire body trembling from more than just the cold.

“I love you. I’m so fucking sorry. Please. We’re out here.”

I ended the voicemail with a shaking hand.

Then, before I lost the signal, I snapped a photo of the view—proof of where we were—and hit send.

I watched the screen.

I watched the little sending message.

Watched as the signal flickered in and out.

And then?—

Sent.

I let out a shaky exhale, relief and terror clashing inside me. It had gone through. Hopefully.

For one last desperate attempt, I dialed 911.

The phone rang once?—

And then someone answered.

It was a garbled voice, cutting in and out with the fading signal.

I shouted into the phone, my voice hoarse with desperation.

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