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  For my brother and sister, Jimmy and Kelly

  DAY 4

  MATT

  Location: Unknown

  He stood motionless in the swirling snowfall, the dead branch balanced lightly over his shoulder like a gnarled baseball bat. He stared at the trees for movement. Past dusty green spruces and giant blue-needled firs, between slim aspens and their black spiderlike branch tips swollen and ready to bud. Though the forest was silent, he knew it was there. And he knew it was watching. But they couldn’t run.

  Not anymore.

  So Matt waited. Ignoring the throb pulsing through his ruined feet, he wished for the hundredth time that he was somewhere else—anywhere else. Despite all the things that had happened in the past three days, or maybe because of them, Matt refused to accept that he would die here. Not now. Not like this. Not after everything they’d gone through. Then again, he figured there must be a limit to luck—it had to run out eventually. This was just as good a time as any. Just as good a place. Out here, death came easy.

  But he wasn’t going to die without a fight.

  The snow fell faster; thick, feathery flakes obliterated the landscape around him into a downy blur of white. The trees disappeared; the mountains beyond them vanished. No birdcalls, no wind, no sound at all except his own breath. Matt’s thoughts drifted to memories of youthful violence, and he wondered if it was because of what was about to happen. Because of what he was going to need to do. Fight. He wondered if he remembered how.

  Third grade was the first and last time he’d ever been in a fight. A real one, with punches and kicks and bruised stomachs. And now, hungry as he was, Matt easily recalled the taste of dirty knuckles colliding with his teeth, the sensation of biting down into skin. But he couldn’t remember the reason—why the fight had happened. He did, however, remember the who.

  Dennis Greene. Mean, mean Denny Greene. The biggest jerk you’ve ever seen. Matt and Dennis hadn’t liked each other on sight. And it didn’t take long for Dennis—in all his eight-year-old glorious psychopathy—to walk up to Matt and say, “At recess, I’m gonna kick your ass,” punching his fist into his palm. Smack. Smack. Smack. Matt didn’t understand why he was given a warning, unless it was just a form of psychological torture, which turned out to be an effective tactic.

  When recess arrived Dennis chased him, picked Matt off from the pack like a lion attacking a weakened gazelle, herded him against a brick wall. And like a hive of bees the rest of the students swarmed in for a better look.

  Moments later, Matt and Dennis marched down the long, shiny hallway to the principal’s office. Dennis went in first, coming out only a few minutes later, his head down in shame or embarrassment—Matt couldn’t be sure.

  What he was sure of was that the principal had been surprised to see him. Matt wasn’t a known troublemaker, wasn’t the type to get into a fight. But these weren’t really the reasons why the principal stared so bewilderedly at Matt. It was because Dennis Greene looked like he’d been hit by a bus. Swollen eye, puffy lips, a missing tooth, and a bright pink bite mark on his forearm, almost breaking the skin. And Matt—Matt who at age eight had the same build as a fence post—didn’t have a mark on him, only a T-shirt slightly stretched out around the collar.

  “I want to hear your story,” the principal finally said, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back against his desk, the wood creaking under his weight.

  But there wasn’t a story to tell. Matt just shrugged and mumbled his way through an explanation. The principal sighed, and dismissed him back to class, saying, “You’re pretty lucky, you know. And you’re a good kid.”

  But the principal had been wrong. Matt wasn’t a good kid; he just looked like one. Because during the fight, after Dennis landed his first punch in Matt’s stomach, Matt twisted into Dennis and thought two things.

  Did he really just punch me in the guts? (The radiating heat through his lower intestines told him the answer was a definite yes.)

  I’m going to kill you, Dennis Greene.

  They stared, eye-to-eye, before Matt erupted with a sound that was half cat hiss and half screech owl. “I’m gonna eat you alive!” He sunk his teeth deep into Dennis’s forearm, followed by a furious windmilling of his fists, rapid jabs to Dennis’s face until he was cowering on the ground, bloodied and breathless.

  Dennis never bothered Matt again. Not because he’d earned the bully’s respect—not by a long shot. But because Dennis saw something in Matt’s eyes that day, something he knew to avoid. A type of deep primal fear that triggered an automatic recoil, like walking into a giant spiderweb.

  A flash of gold caught Matt’s eyes, dragging him back to the present. Here, in this wildness, he no longer needed luck. What he needed was to become that kid again—the raging third grader he thought he’d left behind.

  William Faulkner was right, he thought. The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

  Matt clutched the broken tree branch and watched the animal slink into the pines, moving through the whiteout like a ghost.

  He gave the branch a quick squeeze, testing his grip, and exhaled small puffs of steam as he waited. And waited . . .

  And waited.

  DAY 1

  MATT

  Location: Somewhere over Nebraska

  Elevation: 36,000 feet

  Matt Ruban, all six feet and one hundred ninety-two pounds of him, squirmed in his seat as he passed an unused barf bag to his best friend, Tony. Matt pressed the flight attendant call button, but the light didn’t work. Great. This made him anxious, even more anxious than being trapped next to someone emptying their guts into a paper sack, so he jabbed at it three more times. Staring down the length of the aisle for someone in uniform, he tried to ignore another disturbing thought. If the attendant button doesn’t work on this plane, what else doesn’t work?

  Matt, fully conscious of the seat’s metal frame pressing against his hips, began to wonder about the size and shape of things, especially airplane compartments. Everything seemed to have been designed to accommodate much smaller humans, kids really. Even though at seventeen Matt was technically still considered a kid, there was nothing juvenile about his stature or appearance. Except for his face, which was still smooth-skinned and absent of the acne that plagued most teenage boys. Matt looked older than seventeen, he knew, and he ruffled his short, dark brown hair—too long to be described as military—and scratched at the stubble of sideburns that refused to extend past the tips of his ears. His eyes were as dark as a rainstorm, and his thin lips were pinched in embarrassment for himself and concern for his friend. The engine drone of the Airbus A320 was almost enough to drown out the sound of Tony’s retching. Almost.

  Matt leaned over his armrest into the aisle. The plane was half empty, which gave the impression of more space, but at the same time there was a sense of organized tightness around him, a geometrical precision of compartments and square outlines and corners that prevented him from getting comfortable. Matt squirmed back into his seat as Tony gave another heave into the bag, and he took that as yet another sign he should never have agreed to this trip. That’s what? Sign number five? Matt had been keeping track since morning.

  In fact, he even had a list. Like an actual list. On a piece of paper, crunched up in his back pocket.

  Number one: The flight being delayed due to fog on the ground in Des Moi
nes.

  Number two: The flight being delayed again for “mechanical reasons.” Reasons which were never explained. Reasons Matt didn’t want to know about.

  Number three: Tony deciding to order shrimp cocktail in the airport restaurant while they waited.

  Number four: A drunk guy who was not allowed to board the flight (due to his drunkenness), who then began to verbally abuse the gate agent. “Don’t you know who the hell I am?” he screamed into her face.

  She didn’t.

  Neither did anyone else, apparently. So, in a fit of rage, Mr. Drunk Businessman ripped his boarding pass in half, tripped on his own wheelie bag, and landed against a large potted palm tree that smashed to the floor, spilling dirt everywhere.

  Remembering the list, Matt knew this whole trip was a mistake. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be here, not on a plane heading west. He was supposed to be flying to Florida with his father for spring break. “It’ll be great,” his father said. “A warm and sunny week full of baseball and beaches and fishing on Marco Island!” But the plans fell through, as they always seemed to when his father was involved. A work problem. A schedule problem. A girlfriend problem.

  His father called him on the phone a month ago to cancel, filling the conversation with hasty apologies and immediate assurances to reschedule. Matt almost bought it, too, until his dad told him the real news. Why he really needed to cancel. Why his new wife’s needs were suddenly more important. And that made Matt say things he’d thought many times before but never spoke aloud, including the last sentence before hanging up.

  “You’re fifty-three years old and you’re still a goddamned idiot!”

  Matt squeezed his fist around the end of the armrest. Though he hadn’t done anything but sit in his seat for the past hour, his heart was pounding, his throat dry and itchy at the memory. That he hated feeling this way was an understatement, and he gave the armrest one more squeeze as the flight attendant stopped next to him. The button must have worked after all.

  “Can I help—oh . . . ,” she began, before glancing over at Tony slumped in his seat.

  “Yes. Sorry,” Matt said, the only explanation he could manage as he handed over the putrid sack. “Sorry,” he repeated. If the flight attendant was repulsed, she didn’t show it, but kept smiling, as if the swollen bag was a Christmas present. Matt guessed she’d seen a lot worse.

  “Should I bring another?” she chirped.

  “Umm, yeah. Thanks.” She’s pretty, Matt realized, in a carefully made-up way. Too much makeup, though. “Some ginger ale would be good?” It came out sounding like a question.

  “Of course. One ginger ale.”

  “Make it two,” Matt said. “Please.” He was suddenly hungry. Starving. Despite having to listen to Tony’s stomach exercises. “Do you have any pretzels? Nuts?”

  “I’ll check. We do have a selection of lunch items for purchase.”

  “No thanks.” Matt shook his head. If he could eat free he would. Besides, he knew they’d eat when they landed. Forty-five minutes, Matt reasoned. He could certainly wait that long. A year ago he would have paid for the overpriced snack box. “Just some pretzels if you have any.” Perhaps he was making progress.

  “Certainly.” She blinked her thickly mascaraed eyelashes, which reminded Matt of some sort of insect. “Ginger ale and pretzels.”

  “Cans of ginger ale,” Matt quickly added, shifting again in his seat. “Two cans.”

  Matt knew if he didn’t say that she would bring back two plastic cups, barely full. Nickel and diming everywhere, as his dad would say. Extra for headphones. Extra for peanuts. Pretty soon we’ll all have to fly stark naked and be able to fit in the overhead bin because they’ll charge extra for the actual seat. Matt bit down on his lip to remove his dad’s words from his head. Florida, he couldn’t help but think. I was supposed to be going to Florida.

  The flight attendant nodded with a smile that either meant she liked Matt or wanted to punch him in the face—it was impossible to tell, and Matt wondered if they taught that trick in flight attendant school, if there was such a thing. There probably used to be.

  “Two cans of ginger ale coming up.” She glided away down the aisle.

  “Sorry, bro,” Tony said.

  Matt watched the flight attendant’s legs swish away, a much better view than anything else at the moment. He didn’t answer.

  “Dude, I am.” Tony poked his shoulder. “Totally. I mean it, Matt.”

  “I know.” Don’t call me dude, Matt thought. For whatever reason, Tony spoke as though he grew up in the San Fernando Valley. In the eighties. When in reality, he grew up in a four-bedroom colonial, beige siding with black shutters, in West Des Moines, Iowa. Tony’s place stood two houses down from Matt’s, whose own house looked exactly the same, except with navy-blue shutters. They’d known each other since kindergarten.

  “I shouldn’t have eaten that shrimp,” Tony said, somewhat regretfully.

  “No kidding.”

  “I guess I didn’t think I’d be eating much for the next week.” Tony leaned his head back against the window.

  “Your brother knows how to cook,” Matt said. “He’ll feed us, you know.”

  “Yeah, dude, but what?”

  “Food, I guess. Don’t all college students have endless supplies of ramen? They also have this weird thing called restaurants.” The flight attendant was on her way back, palming two metallic-green cans. “Besides, this was your idea, remember?”

  Tony grunted.

  Matt took the cans. “Thank you.” They were warm, of course, but he didn’t care. He quickly popped the top of one with a satisfying chaclunk-fwiiisssh, which never failed to make him thirsty.

  Tony slugged his down, drinking half before commenting the obvious. “It’s warm.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Sorry. Thanks bro.” He smiled and Matt forgave him immediately.

  Completely oblivious most of the time, but genuinely nice, Tony reminded Matt of a golden retriever. Self-involved, a little dumb, oafish and gluttonous, but not mean. Never mean. And that was saying something.

  “How much longer?” Tony asked, keeping the can pressed to his forehead.

  “Not much.” Matt poked the button on the headrest screen to pull up the map. The plane icon blinked, a red arrow denoting the flight path. “It looks like we’re almost ready to descend.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Have patience,” Matt replied. “All things are difficult before they become easy.”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “All right, I’ll bite. Tell me who said that one. And it better not be Confucius.”

  “Saadi.”

  “Who the heck is that?”

  “Persian poet. Lived during the thirteenth century, I think.”

  “Well, here’s what I think.” Tony replied, stifling a belch. “I think I don’t like flying.”

  “Nobody likes flying,” Matt said. “But it’s not that bad.”

  Tony crossed his eyes. “That’s because you didn’t just empty your lunch into a paper bag.”

  “Too true.” Matt finally smiled.

  “Not funny, dude.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  “And now I’m hungry again.” Tony sighed and drank the rest of his ginger ale.

  “Hello and good afternoon. This is your captain. We have begun our descent . . .”

  “What’s he saying?” Tony whispered nervously.

  “It’s in English, Tony.”

  “Oh?” He frowned, unconvinced. “I don’t understand it. Must be the accent.”

  “It’s the usual,” Matt said. “Weather’s good. Sixty-five and sunny.” Tony smiled wide at this, considering back in Des Moines it was barely above freezing. “And everything looks good for landing. No delays. We should be on the ground in twenty minutes.” Out the window there was nothing but clouds, but soon enough the plane lowered into them. The engine shuddered slightly—a trembling vibration rippled through the cabin, giv
ing everything made of plastic a twisty squeak.

  “What’s that?” Tony tightened his belt. “Thought you said it’s good.”

  “Just some turbulence coming down over the mountains,” Matt lied, having no idea what it was, only that he didn’t want Tony to get so nervous that he barfed again. “Perfectly normal.”

  “How can they land in this?” Tony examined the white fog out the window. “You can’t see a thing.”

  “They don’t have to see,” Matt explained. “They just use computers. They can do it blindfolded. The plane practically lands itself.”

  “Says you,” Tony fidgeted with the shade on the window. “So what happens when the computers don’t work?”

  “I guess we crash.”

  “Dude!” Tony flinched. “Bad juju.”

  “Sorry.”

  The plane descended, making Matt’s ears pop. He drank the rest of the ginger ale in breathless gulps.

  The ground, now visible through the clouds, reminded him of a desert, brown and flat, but north of the downtown buildings the mountains reared up, slate blue, black, and green, bright white on the peaks. A lot of snow, Matt thought, dejected. More than he expected for April. Even from this height the mountain range looked immense, dwarfing the city below. He didn’t want snow. He wanted sand and palm trees. Hot sun and ocean breezes.

  Wing flaps rose in a mechanical whir. Wheels unfolded from the belly, and with a squeak and a judder, the plane touched down.

  Matt felt the air decompress and heard the buttons ding. Seat belts unclicked as the captain announced their arrival. “On behalf of the flight crew we wish you a safe and pleasant journey. . . .”

  “Are you sure that’s English?” Tony interrupted. “I still can’t understand a word.”

  “He says welcome to Denver.” Matt tugged his duffle bag free from the overhead bin. “The mile-high city.”

  “High is right.” Tony laughed, pretending to smoke a joint. “Rocky Mountain high, Colorado,” he sang, then punched Matt in the shoulder. “Dude! This is going to be the best spring break ever.”