The bad news

The transition from the helicopter to the long-range jet happened quickly. We landed on a private tarmac in California that looked more like a luxury resort than an airport. Black SUVs were already waiting by the side of the helicopter. No one asked for my ID, and no one checked my bag. We were simply whisked across the asphalt to a massive, sleek jet that had the Coop Enterprises logo embossed in white on the tail.

As I climbed the stairs into the jet, my jaw dropped in amazement. It had plush swivel chairs, a dining area, and even a small bedroom at the back. Ms. Davies pointed me toward a seat near the window while Mr. Coop went straight to a desk bolted to the floor.

Once we were in the air and the "fasten seatbelt" sign went off, I forced myself to open the leather binder. I couldn't afford to be caught sleeping again. I needed to prove I was worth the space I was taking up.

The Southern Dialect was a beautiful, complex language. It wasn't just about words; it was about the rhythm. I practiced the pronunciations under my breath as I refreshed my memory.

“Fakalofa lahi atu,” I whispered. It was a formal greeting. Then there was “Fakamolemole,” which meant please, and “Fakaaue,” for thank you. These were words I hadn't used since I was a child sitting at my grandmother's feet. I wondered if Mr. Coop ever said "please" or "thank you" in any language.

Across the aisle, Mr. Coop picked up a satellite phone and dialed a number.

"Get me the General Manager," he said, his voice dropping into that commanding tone that made everyone in the room stand a little straighter. "Listen, I want the Tokyo merger finalized by Friday. If they haggle on the shipping costs again, tell them we’re pulling the software licensing. I don't care if it’s their national holiday. Results, not excuses."

He hung up without waiting for a reply. He looked like he had never taken "no" for an answer. But a moment later, his phone buzzed again. He stared at the screen for a long time. His jaw tensed so hard I thought I heard his teeth grind. He looked like he wanted to throw the phone across the cabin, but instead, he let out a sharp breath and answered.

"Hello, Mother," he said.

His voice was different and slightly strained. He stood up and walked toward the private cabin at the back of the jet, closing the door behind him.

I stared at the closed door. So, even the Ice King had "mommy issues." It was a strange thought. It made him feel slightly more human, though.

Thinking about mothers always led me back to the same dark place. My own mother had vanished when I was thirteen. She didn't die; she just decided that another man was more important than her daughter. She had cheated on my dad twice before finally packing her bags and leaving us in the middle of the night.

That was the night the man I called "Dad" turned into a stranger. He took all the bitterness and the betrayal he felt toward my mother and poured it onto me. Because I had her eyes. Because I laughed like her.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, and a vivid memory flashed in my mind. It was one of the nightmares that still kept me awake. I was fourteen. My dad had found a photo of my mom tucked under my pillow. He didn't shout or beat me. He just walked into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and held the photo over the flame until it turned to ash. Then, he grabbed my wrist and held it just close enough to the heat that I could feel the burn.

"If you ever go look for her," he had whispered, his eyes dark and empty, "you can forget about coming back."

The memory was so sharp I could almost smell the smoke. I shook my head, trying to force the image away. I was thousands of miles away from that kitchen. I was safe.

"Everything alright, Ms. Tokes?"

I looked up to see Ms. Davies standing over me. She had emerged from a small galley area with a tray of water.

"I'm fine," I lied, offering a small, tight smile. "Just a bit tired."

She nodded and walked off. As I reclined further into my seat, I was pulled into another traumatic memory. This time, I was sixteen. My dad took me to the hospital after—

"Ladies and gentlemen," the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. He sounded calm, but there was an edge of panic to his words. "We’re hitting a bit of turbulence ahead. Please return to your seats and ensure your belts are fastened. It should be over in a few minutes."

The plane lurched sideways. My stomach dropped as if we had fallen a hundred feet in a single second. My binder slid off my lap and skittered across the floor.

"Is that normal?" I asked, gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned white.

Ms. Davies didn't answer. She was already buckled in, her eyes fixed on the cockpit door.

The door at the back of the jet flew open. Mr. Coop stepped out, his phone gone. He looked alarmed. He looked at the window, at the wing, and then his eyes met mine. He knew something was very wrong.

Another lurch. This time, there was a loud bang from the right side of the plane. The jet tilted sharply, and I heard the sound of glass breaking somewhere.

"This is the captain," the voice came again, but the calm was gone. "We’ve experienced a dual engine failure. Repeat, we have lost power to both engines. We are currently gliding. I am looking for a spot for an emergency landing. Please assume the brace position."

"A landing?" I gasped, looking out the window.

As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but blue. The Pacific Ocean stretched out like an endless, glittering sheet of glass. There were no islands. No runways. No boats. Just miles and miles of deep, dark water.

"Sit down properly, woman!" Mr. Coop shouted over the sudden whistling of wind. He reached across the aisle, grabbing my arm and shoving me back into my seat as the plane began to nose-dive. "Buckle the strap! Now!"

I fumbled with the metal clip, my hands shaking so hard I could barely move. He leaned over, his face inches from mine, and clicked the belt into place for me. His hands were steady, but his breath was coming fast.

"We’re going to be okay," he said. It was the first lie he’d ever told me, and we both knew it.

The plane began to shake violently. The beautiful interior of the jet now felt like a coffin.

The water was coming up fast. I closed my eyes and prayed for a miracle, but all I could hear was the terrifying silence of the engines.

We were fucked.