Falling

It happened eighteen minutes ago. The plane came down, down through the clouds, pointed nose tilting toward the ground, wings shuddering wildly as the engine choked and coughed on its own fumes. The pilot was dead, forehead long since smashed on the control panel. The little orange box anchored among the cargo recorded nothing but the wind's triumphant screech as it tossed and buffeted the machine silly enough to think it could defy gravity. There were no passengers. The plane spiraled toward the ground, and the pilot's hand stiffened around the precious cargo in his pocket.

Seventeen minutes ago, far from its birthplace in Shanghai, Japan, the failing engine sputtered and died. Moments later, it smashed nose-first into the baseball field at Merriton County Elementary. There was no explosion, only a grating, gnashing excavation of third base. A wing dangled like a broken branch, casting a wavering shadow over smoking debris, and in Room 14 Annie Fredricks peered out the window and screamed.

"Don't - " the teacher started, but her first grade class was already streaking out the door and across home plate. "Oh dear," murmured Ms. Long as she raced to catch up with her students. "Oh my."

Annie was the anomaly. She alone stayed where she was, small palms pressed against the window and breath fogging up the glass. She watched as Ms. Long intercepted the children at the pitcher's mound, did a quick head count, and led her them back inside. Before they reached the classroom, however, Annie let the wind rush from her lungs with a loud whoosh. "Oh!" she gasped, and her eyes grew round. Then, daintily, she tiptoed from the room and slipped behind the coat in a nearby cubby. The rest of the class passed by, whispering excitedly in a line behind their harried teacher. Annie dashed for the exit - and the plane.

The little girl's braids shone gold in the sunlight, and her face was determined. The plane was a hundred feet away, then fifty, then twenty. She heard shouting in the distance and ran faster, approaching the largely intact cockpit with a frenzied speed. The emergency door had been torn from its hinges. Annie vaulted into the gaping hole where it used to hang with a little grunt of effort. And then she was in.

Inside, it was dark, the only illumination coming from the sun streaming through Annie's entryway. She ran her fingers along the control panel, feeling the bumps and grooves that peppered its otherwise smooth surface. She shrieked in surprise as she tripped over the pilot's prostrate body and toppled into his lap. Whimpering, she placed a hand on his hip to push herself up. Something wriggled beneath her palm, and she gave a little yelp of fear.

There were voices outside the plane now, and she knew she didn't have much time. Annie gritted her teeth and reached, trembling, into the pilot's pocket. His icy fingers were wrapped around something warm, something furry. She pried them open, and a kitten scampered into her arms. "Hello, kitty," she cooed, and she slid her new friend down the front of her jacket just as a burly fireman scooped her off the floor and carried her from the plane.

Outside, the crowd clustered around the yellow emergency tape surrounding the wreck. Annie held tightly to her fireman's hand as he trudged toward them. "It's bad," he reported grimly. "No survivors."

Annie felt tiny paws kneading at her stomach and she smiled.