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I scream at once to the man with the fire extinguisher, “Over there, someone is alive!”
He turns and looks at me with amazement. The horror reflected in his bloodshot eyes evolves into a flicker of hope.
I point. “Left side, fourth row!”
The man tosses me the extinguisher as he climbs into the aircraft. As I grab the canister, I release my hands on my beloved camera, allowing it to yo-yo back and forth freely on its strap as it continues to document the indescribable scene.
There are no flames left inside the plane as the man carefully swings his leg up about two feet into the nightmarish hole. He grabs onto part of the bald man’s armrest and pulls himself inside.
I step closer now, close enough to be able to reach out and touch the ghastly wreck.
The man moves cautiously down the aisle past three rows of bodies, all noticeably dead by their appearance of lifeless faces or twisted body parts. I try ignoring them as much as possible and suggest you do the same. He squats down behind the next row so I can’t see what he’s doing.
“Here, yes!” he calls out loudly as his head bobs up and down. “A kid is alive!”
I can’t see what’s happening, can you? I presume the man is helping the person sit up as the hand under the seat has disappeared from my vantage point.
Without thinking, I drop the fire extinguisher and pull my Nikon out in front of me. This time, however, I don’t look at the viewfinder but let the camera run on its own—I keep my eyes glued to the man, hunched over in the aisle.
“You’re okay; you’re going to be okay,” he repeats to the passenger.
I see the man haul a body up over his shoulder and retreat backward in my direction. The body looks like that of a young man, I’m guessing mid-teens, sporting short brown hair and an orange polo shirt with its collar flipped up, covering his neck. I can’t see his face. His body is limp.
The boy starts to moan as the man approaches the opening, next to the bald man in the blue shirt.
Since both are now directly above me, you and I see the boy’s face, which has a hint of facial hair. I guess he’s fourteen or fifteen years old. He’s waking up, and his eyelids are fluttering.
Unconsciously, I click the “Off” button on my camera and let it dangle against me.
The teen looks directly at me, his eyes empty at first, then opening wide in astonishment as he focuses on me.
Did you see the look on his face? Hard to forget, right?
As the boy continues to stare at me, I freeze in place, seeing so much anguish and fear conveyed in his eyes.
The man turns around and squats at the edge of the plane’s floor. He asks me to help slip the boy off his shoulder, yet I don’t respond. I can’t move. I can’t get past the boy’s bewildered facial expression. I can’t even lift my arms as they hang flimsily by my side. I don’t do anything but stand there like a statue. I know you see my detached behavior, and I’m ashamed of it, but I still do not react.
The man gives me an exasperated look as he solely lifts and positions the kid in front of him. Without dropping the boy, the man slowly lowers him to the ground. On further inspection, I notice the guy must be a bodybuilder, as his hands are oversized, and his sweatshirt bulges at his biceps.
Again, I’m immobile, yet I detect the kid starting to thrash his arms and legs when he’s a foot off the ground.
Although I know nothing about medicine, I visually inspect the boy’s body. It looks lean but not skinny, about the same height as my five-foot-five-inch frame and weighing a little more than my one-hundred-and-twenty pounds. There appears to be neither blood gushing out of his orifices nor any twisted arms or legs. He looks unhurt.
As the teen’s feet touch the dirt, his legs do not buckle or collapse; he stands but sways a little. The man keeps both hands on him, perhaps for his own support while leaping down from the plane.
My body finally catches up to my brain, and I act; I put my hand on the boy’s arm and say, “Hold still; we’re trying to help you,” but he doesn’t seem to hear.
Meanwhile, the man inspects the boy by walking around him and checking his hands, turning them over. Bearishly, the guy states in a commanding tone, “You look okay. This lady will take care of you,” he tells him. “Lean on her.”
Me? What am I supposed to do? I can’t help this kid. I’m no medic. I didn’t sign up for this job. I have no clue what to do here. I’m only a spectator taking a video. Not me! Do you have any advice?
I start to protest, but the man looks at me, too close to my face for comfort, and announces, “I’m gonna check the plane again to see if anyone else is alive in there.”
He takes the boy’s right arm and practically throws it over my shoulder, then picks up the fire extinguisher and returns to the gaping hole that has become the plane’s entrance. He jumps back in and continues up the aisle, searching for more survivors.
What should I do next? Maybe you can help me with him.
At least now the boy only has a glazed look in his eyes.
I ask him if he can walk to where we could get away from the awful scene behind us. I feel like I’m babbling. Can you tell if my actions and expressions are falling short of matching my words?
Then he does something odd. He moves his arm closer around me, protectively, pulling my face toward him with a bit of force. It makes me feel claustrophobic, being tugged close to his youthful body. He stares again at me, but not with that frightened look. I feel he is attempting to connect with me somehow, but I have no clue how to respond.
“Eddie’s gone,” he whispers hopelessly as our eyes meet.
Do you hear how distressing his words are? Do they haunt you like they do my heart?
I have no answer. I don’t know how to act.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Hang in there. Let’s get out of here,” I add as though I’m talking to a school pal at recess, trying to share all the day’s news before the bell rings. “Let’s head over there,” I point to the row of townhouses. “Maybe we can sit down on the curb?” I try to say anything to erase his look, his words.
As he and I stumble through the debris, body parts, dead weeds, and blooming poppies, he loosens his grip on me and supports himself more with each step. Neither of us looks down at the ground; we keep our gaze on the townhouse complex. I feel like we’re running in a horse race and headed for the finish line, wearing blinders to keep us from any distractions.
When we are yards from the street, my cell phone rings in my pants pocket. I stop in my tracks without notifying the boy, almost causing both of us to stumble. I fish out the device, hoping it’s Denny. Where did that man go? Looking at the caller ID, I see it’s from my mom. She can wait for now. Nothing could be more traumatic than what I’m dealing with this minute, and the only other person I want to speak to right now is my husband.
Without answering, I numbly put the phone back.
While we step onto the worn asphalt, I notice the high-end bicycle is gone, as are the shoes and helmet. Only the athletic clothing remains, looking ransacked with both shorts’ pockets inverted. An open wallet lies in the middle of the street. There’s no sign of the missing cyclist.
I nod to the boy that we can start walking again, and he obeys without speaking. Wordlessly, we cross the access street, shuffling mindlessly over the speed bump. I help him sit down on the curb, shifting my camera bag off my shoulder and placing it between my legs. To avoid attracting attention from the now-growing crowd, I pull off my neon yellow vest with its press badge and jam it into my camera bag’s side pocket.
We both take deep breaths and slowly exhale in unison as we sit in silence, reviewing the bad dream that, hopefully, is coming to completion in front of us.
The kid is alive. He’ll be okay.
I’ll be okay. I stayed in control. It’s over now.
Don’t you think I did well, considering all that’s happened today? How are you? I know you’re as tense as I am, but it’s over. We got through it together. We’re okay.