The plane hit a patch of turbulence, and Chelsea realized she’d been staring at Clark’s worksheet page but hadn’t written anything since her unexpected conversation with Grandma Lucy. Even now the old woman’s words from her prayer still rang in Chelsea’s ears. A siren song. Calling her somewhere.
But where?
It was impossible to give a name to the ennui, the unrest. All Chelsea knew was that she wanted to figure out what her soul was trying to tell her. She needed something more out of life. She’d known that for years. That was why she hired a life coach in the first place.
But there was something else. Something still missing after all these months of intense journaling and dozens of hours of reflection. Her mom would say that what Chelsea was missing was an intimate connection with the Lord. Even Brie, who wasn’t nearly as tactless as her mother could be, felt the same way.
But Chelsea was scared. She’d met too many obnoxious Christians. Heard too many horrible stories from her colleagues about the bigotry and chauvinism and hatred that infected the church.
Chelsea didn’t want to be like that. Didn’t want to breathe Bible verses down people’s necks like her mom. Didn’t want to devote her life to church ministry like Brie. More than anything, Chelsea didn’t want to turn into the kind of Christian who’d make a scene of herself on a crowded airplane to kneel down in the aisle and pray for a complete stranger.
She wanted to be herself. Chelsea. The journalist. The writer. The career woman.
She just wanted to be a happier version of herself.
Was that so much to ask?
For a couple years now, Chelsea had wondered if what she was really dealing with was some sort of clinical depression. It had gotten to the point last winter that if she hadn’t been worried about insurance coverage, she probably would have made an appointment to talk to her family doctor. She hadn’t brought it up to her parents. Thankfully, she was still managing just fine, but maybe all the mental unrest she was experiencing was nothing more than a chemical unbalance. How could she really know unless she talked about it with an expert, right?
Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut. She was tired of being so mopey, so down all the time. She had a great life. Hadn’t that ta-da list she wrote for Clark proved that? Chelsea deserved to be happy. Deserved a brain that could truly experience a deep sense of appreciation for all that she’d accomplished.
Maybe once she got back from Detroit she’d call the doctor …
“Help!” The desperate scream from several rows behind her made Chelsea jump in her seat. She bumped her thigh on the tray, hurtling her notebook to the ground, as a young woman struggled in the aisle with a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt.
“Help me!” the girl screamed again.
A flight attendant raced ahead. Chelsea didn’t know if she was supposed to stare or join the screaming or simply mind her own business.
She overheard someone shout the word kidnapped, and her heart froze for an instant. What was going on?
“Let her go.” There were several passengers in the aisle now, and everyone was trying to pry a teenaged girl away from the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Chelsea didn’t feel right staring, but what choice did she have? One of her colleagues had recently written an article about human trafficking in the US and how airlines were now training all their personnel to spot potential victims. Is that what was going on?
A muscular man planted himself squarely in the aisle. “Air marshal,” he announced authoritatively, pulling out his sidearm. “Freeze.”
For a moment, Chelsea allowed herself to experience relief. If there was an air marshal on board, everything would be under control. This girl would be saved. Her assailant would get the full punishment allowed under federal law. Life would go on as normal. Chelsea was already thinking about a pitch for a new story about air marshals, airline safety, and human trafficking.
The captain’s voice sounded over the PA, but before he could get out a complete sentence, his announcement was cut short by the screams of another terrified passenger. Chelsea instinctively jerked her body around to see what was happening behind her. Two men were now attacking the air marshal. One of them grabbed the officer’s gun. This time it was Chelsea who screamed as the man brought the butt of the gun down on the air marshal’s skull. He crumpled to the ground and lay in a grotesque heap in the aisle.
A man Chelsea hadn’t noticed before raised the air marshal’s gun above his head. “I’m in charge of this airplane now,” he declared. “My name is Bradley Strong, and I suggest you all do exactly as I say.”