The solidness beneath them tilts. A voice comes on.

He is just a man trying to master dignity, trying not to let fear paralyze the movement of his tongue. He tells himself not panic. He commands his throat to constrict, to swallow the mucus worm back down to where it belongs. He will not vomit from the acidic depths of his abdomen. He will not. He has a baby girl at home. She was born with cerebral palsy. He couldn’t look at her straight in the eyes. He has to reach green pasture again, to look at her without fearing the presence of disappointment and shame dominating over his features. He is in control. Having control is just a set of mind. He opens his mouth but he can’t hear anything he is saying. All he hears is her name running across his mind, skipping and tripping, Ana, Ana, Ana. Ana with her black wisps, her toothy smile, and the many wrinkles on her tiny fingers and toes. Not so different from the other babies except she is his, all his. When he see her again, he’d say, “If I could pick one person to save, I’d save you and the rest of us can perish within our humanity. The rest of us can burn slowly until one day we cease to exist. But you, Ana, you should always remain, as you are. The rest of us can age and become cynical and feel less hope each passing day while we lead our robotic lives. But you, Ana, you should always remain free, intangible.”

A woman counts her breaths. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-three. Three years. She's been in love with a man for three years and never said a word. Thirty-six months. One hundred eighty weeks. Approximately. Since her divorce, she couldn’t imagine going through the process all over again. But yet, she does, every day. She wakes up every morning wondering what he's doing and she goes to bed every night wondering whom he's with. It hasn't killed her yet because she has a habit of polishing off glasses of vodka filled to the brink. And now, here, in the middle of the afternoon, she is thinking about him when she should be thinking about the welfare of her terrier. Her terrier from her Russian friend, Olga. She tried to be a lesbian, for Olga. Olga is tall and has multicolored hair. She loves painting the lips of flowers. She never admitted it before but Olga’s paintings scares her. They all give off a violent air. Olga left her for another Russian who draws with a hot streak of vibrant violence too. She doesn't mind much their failed relationship. She just drinks more and it actually feels more satisfying than playing around with a dildo all night and not being able to come. She taps at the napkins beneath her sweating palms. She pulls out a pen from her purse. A love letter. That’s what she will do. Even if she’s gone, this will remain. If there’s no fire. Probably, there’ll be fire, but maybe it’ll leave it alone. And someone will find it and hand it to him. And maybe there is a God and the napkin will shape itself into a crane and fly to him. And he’ll know.

A young man thinks about his legs, not listening to the shuddering voice over the speakers. What is the best position for one's legs in a situation like this? His ex-girlfriend has the most beautiful legs. She doesn’t think so even as he tells her over and over again while they lie in bed. He looks at them whenever he can, stares at them, especially under the blue glow of the television set. He also likes her breasts. Her breasts are uneven, just the tiniest bit. He had smiled when she said it, imagined them in his mind. He saw them just once. They are a creamy brown color, almost like hazelnut coffee, lighter toward the nipples. They aren’t big, but they looked full without clothes shielding them. She broke up with him last week. She just looked up from studying for her math finals and said she didn’t want to do it anymore. He never asked why. He doesn’t care anymore why. He loves her and wants her. He won’t stop until he figures out a way. There has to be a way. He will call her first thing after this is all over. He loosens his muscles and presses the soles of his sneakers together. Turning to look out the window, he catches the wing of the plane behind him, a tip of cold steel against the otherwise pure sky. He looks downward and sees the houses lined up in neat rows and columns. Much like graves, thousands and thousands of graves.

They descend further, faster. Actually, it’s more plummeting than descending now. The oxygen masks drop making very soft pops. Closing their eyes, they pretend it is a game they play, just one more test, just one more crooked path, one more stroke of bad luck, just one more. That’s all there is to it. Afterwards, they will be stronger than before. Stronger and free. Somehow. And they will go on to do everything they were once afraid of.