I adjusted.
Too much sink.
Correct.
Crosswind.
Correct.
Airspeed fluctuating.
Hold.
Hold.
Hold.
The wheels struck the runway with brutal force.
A scream tore through the cabin.
The aircraft bounced once.
For a terrifying second, we were airborne again.
I pushed just enough.
Not panic.
Not force.
Control.
The wheels hit again.
This time they stayed.
Reverse thrust roared.
The runway blurred past.
The aircraft shuddered like it might shake apart. David shouted speeds. I worked the rudder, fighting the crosswind trying to shove us off centerline.
The giant slowed.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
Emergency vehicles raced alongside us, red lights flashing through rain.
Finally, the aircraft rolled to a heavy, trembling stop.
Silence fell.
A silence so complete it was almost holy.
Then someone in the cabin began to sob.
Another person clapped once.
Then again.
Within seconds, the entire aircraft erupted.
Applause.
Crying.
Prayers.
People shouting thanks to anyone who could hear them.
David dropped his head into his hands.
I sat still, both hands on the controls.
My body had not yet accepted that it was over.
Because it wasn’t.
Not really.
The cockpit door opened.
Mia appeared, mascara streaked, eyes shining.
“Emma,” she whispered.
I turned to her.
She looked at my hands still resting on the controls.
Then at my face.
“You landed it.”
“No,” I said quietly. “We did.”
