Flight #116 Is Down Read Online Free Page A

in? What if—
    I have only one thing to offer, thought Carly. I really am sorry. I have to believe that that matters to them.
    Actually, she did have something else to offer.
    She had knit her twin a sweater: cable stitches; quite complex. It looked pretty darn good. Carly had enjoyed knitting it. Of course she had started the sweater for herself, just as she had started everything for herself last year; last year Carly had not cared about a single person on earth except herself. She had chosen a heathery wool—rich, rusty purple. She and her twin were fair and looked ill in pastels but fragile and beautiful in dark, intense colors. Shirl would love the color, but Shirl might still be so mad that she’d never wear it, or would trash it, or give it away.
    Not much of a peace offering. Considering what Carly had done.
    Carly had not packed the sweater in her luggage but wrapped it in sparkly tissue and tucked it into a clear plastic bag. It lay under the seat in front. She smiled down at the shiny package.
    The timelessness of flight droned around her; the rituals of ordering a soda, putting down the little white tray on which to set her soda, watching the safety demonstration video, scanning the flight magazine in the pouch—all this was correct. It was right and just that she should have these few hours aloft; literally above her problems and the people she had to face.
    She was amazed at her contentment. The year of vicious rebellion seemed as distant as the miles they covered.
    When the flight attendant brought the meal, Carly beamed at her. Betsey! said the name tag. Carly loved that exclamation point. Betsey! looked like the kind of woman who turned everything into an exclamation point. I’d like to be like that, thought Carly. Maybe I could do this when I grow up.
    Carly laughed at herself. She was a little behind on the growing-up scale. A little behind on the educational scale, too.
    But I’ll catch up, thought Carly. She liked the way Betsey! had cut her hair, too: a thick, buoyant cut that looked somehow fluffy and long and yet was really quite short and easy to care for. Carly touched her own shoulder-length hair and thought, Yes. I’m going to cut it. Layers. I’m going to look suburban again, and flight attendant-ish, and have it all together.
    How pretty the tray was, with its little dessert sparkling cinnamon on top, its carrots bright orange, and its gravy rich brown. “Lovely,” Carly told Betsey! although usually she did not care for airline food.
    Carly laughed at herself and then tucked her smile back in, to be a rational, sober copy of the rest of the passengers.
    What more beautiful words exist, thought Carly Foyle, than going home ?

Three
    S ATURDAY: 5:30 P.M.
    Laura and Ty had been in the last EMT training class. All one hundred and ninety hours of training had been fascinating. All necessary. Failure to pass the state test was rare, not because the test was simple, but because if you were motivated to start and to stay, you were motivated to learn the techniques and get them right.
    Mr. Farquhar was the chief instructor. He was patient and funny and always made you feel special for making the effort at all. “Remember, kids,” he would say, “we’ve got a town full of rich people, estate people, summer people, and they expect to be rescued. They never expect to do the rescuing. We don’t get volunteers from that quarter.”
    There were certainly no rich people in the training sessions, nor had Laura come across any on the crew. It was as blue collar as changing tires or bagging groceries.
    She had wondered why. A lot of the wealthy townspeople were very community oriented; always serving on this board or that, sponsoring this fund-raiser or that. Mr. Farquhar summed it up with a shrug of his eyebrows. “They don’t like to get their hands dirty,” he said, “and this is a dirty job. People vomit on you and bleed on you. Their houses or their bodies smell bad. You’ll step in car oil