Chapter 9: Solo

The mechanic drove me to the north end in his truck at sixty miles an hour with no headlights, because he said they only made the fog worse.

He had the Hen out of the hangar before I'd buckled my harness.

"Fuel's topped, kid," he shouted through the window. "Pump's still old. Don't baby it."

"Got it."

"Don't die, either."

"Also got it."

The island's volunteer firemen brought the fisherman up in the back of a pickup, wrapped in a tarp and a blanket.

His right hand was wrapped in so many towels, and the towels were red all the way through.

His wife climbed in after him, still in her slippers.

I knew him. He'd sold my father bait for twenty years.

"Darcy Ingalls," he said through his teeth. "They let you fly this thing?"

"As of two weeks ago."

"God help me."

"He's busy. You've got me."

His wife laughed in a high, scared way, and held his good hand.

I taxied to the end of the runway.

I could see three of the runway lights. Then gray.

I put my hand on the throttle and thought of the night with Kit.

Sawyer's voice in my head, calling the checks.

I called them myself, out loud, so the fisherman's wife could hear someone sounding calm.

Then I pushed the throttle all the way in.

The Hen roared and leaned and ran.

Nine hundred feet. The nose came up.

A few seconds of nothing.

Then the fog tore away underneath us and there were the stars again, and the long dark line of the coast, and Rockland lit up.

The fisherman's wife let out a sob.

"Oh, thank you, Jesus."

"You're welcome," I said, and she laughed again, better this time.

I radioed Rockland. The ambulance would meet us on the ramp.

The fisherman went gray halfway across the bay.

His wife held the towels down on his hand with both her own and talked to him the whole time.

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