“He puts on a good show, I’ll give him that,” my dad murmurs, winking at me. Something tells me he’s not talking about Jonah’s flying abilities.

“See? I told you! She’s good as good,” Bart proclaims, turning toward the hangar, wrench in hand. “I gotta get back to fixing things that have real problems, not pretend ones.”

My dad sighs. “Well, that’s good. Now we just have to figure out . . .” His words drift, his hard gaze on the sky. “Hey, Bart?”

“Yeah, boss?” Bart calls out, slowing in his retreat.

“Do you hear that?” There’s an edge to his voice.

I frown, my own ears perking, searching for whatever’s gotten my dad’s hackles up.

It takes me moment to realize that the constant buzz, that telltale sound of a bush plane in flight, has cut off.

“What’s going on?” I ask warily.

“I don’t know. The engine’s off, though. He might be trying to restart it.” They both pause to listen.

Meanwhile all I can seem to hear is my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears.

The plane begins to descend.

A phone rings and my dad reaches into his pocket to retrieve it. I didn’t even know he had a phone. “Yup? . . . Okay.” He ends the call. “That was Agnes. Jonah just radioed in to say he’s got an engine fire. He shut it off on purpose. He’s gotta bring her down on the other side of Whittamores’. Come on.”

My stomach is tight as I rush to keep up with my dad, who has taken up a pace much faster than I’ve seen from him thus far. “Is he going to be okay?” I note the edge of panic in my voice.

“Yeah, don’t worry. He’ll just glide in. He knows how to land in an emergency,” he assures me, pulling his keys from his pocket and hopping into the driver’s seat of his truck.

I don’t think twice, climbing in to take the middle seat, between him and Bart.

Whatever few seconds of calm my dad’s words gave me quickly evaporate as he guns the truck’s engine and peels down the road.

I feel like a storm chaser, our truck speeding down the dirt road, the yellow plane gliding toward the ground alongside us.

“It’s really flat around here. That’s good, right?”

“Yup. That’s good,” my dad promises, reaching over to pat my knee. “Jonah’s landed on everything from glaciers to a mountain ridge even I wouldn’t land on. Don’t worry.”

“Of course there’s the wind and the bushes and the power lines, and that lake, and a few houses that he’s got to watch out for. And if that fire didn’t die out—”

“Bart!” my dad barks, making me jump.

I’ve never heard my dad raise his voice before.

“What is it? . . . It’s . . . nine in ten emergency landings that end without a scratch. Yeah, he knows what he’s doing,” Bart mutters, drumming his fingers impatiently on his door.

I want to believe him, but the way he said that makes me think he was just pulling those numbers out of his ass.

For as flat as the land around here is and as far as I can see on my morning runs, there’s a ridge and bush line up ahead that masks Betty’s descent as Jonah brings her to the ground.

A few seconds later, there’s a loud bang.

“Is that normal?” I ask with panic in my voice.

My dad doesn’t answer, veering onto a muddy path. A private road for tractors or other vehicles, I’m guessing. It’s narrow, and full of deep divots that he doesn’t bother navigating around, instead racing right through, sending us bumping around in our seats. Finally he brings the truck to a jarring stop. “This is as far as we can drive.”

We pile out. I don’t wait for them, charging forward, around the crop of bushes, my running shoes sinking into the wet ground.

If Bart’s numbers are accurate, then Jonah is the one out of ten.

I don’t know when exactly I start to run, but I’m moving fast now, my blood rushing in my ears as I race toward the wreckage, stumbling over the uneven ground and around the bits of yellow metal debris, doing my best not to focus on how one of Betty’s wings is jutting into the air at an odd angle, and how the rest of her is riddled with dents and scratches. A stretch of torn land, grass, and muddy streaks lead me in.

Sitting on the ground some distance away, with his back pressed against a crop of rocks, is Jonah, rivulets of blood snaking down over the bridge of his nose, his left eye, and his beard, like some victim in a horror film.

“Oh my God.” I dive down to kneel next to him, shifting strands of his long, straggly hair back to reveal the source of the blood, a gash across his forehead.

“Am I still pretty?” he murmurs dryly.

I let out a shaky laugh. Amid my struggle to catch my breath, I’m hit with an overwhelming wave of relief that not only is Jonah alive, but his sarcastic tongue seems to be flapping just fine.

“We need to get something on that.” I look around, only to remember that we’re in a field. “Here. Use this.” I strip off my sweater and hold it against the wound.

“Thanks.” He sighs, reaching up to press his bloodied hand over mine to clamp my sweater in place.

Bart is the first to reach us.

“Nothing wrong with her, hey, Bart?” Jonah mutters.