We’re doomed. I haven’t told Gustav this yet because he wouldn’t understand. Being doomed isn’t like building an invisible helicopter. Being doomed isn’t like watching Amadeus for the fiftieth time.
Being doomed is being a passenger in a helicopter I can’t see for two whole days.
It’s like gliding, but while sitting down.
Being doomed asks questions.
Why haven’t we run out of fuel yet?
Where are we going?
Why does this map take us in so many circles?
As if Gustav senses my nervousness, he frowns. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “We’re doomed.”
“Doomed?” Gustav says.
“Why haven’t we stopped for gas?” I say. “And why haven’t we stopped at all? We’ve been up here for two days.”
“You need a snack,” Gustav says. “You need water.”
I look behind me at the box of food Gustav brought. He favors chewy granola bars, raisins, and gum.
“Gum?” I say. “Why did you bring gum?”
Gustav laughs. He points. “We’ll land there,” he says.
Below us is a green landscape. Flat. No airport. No fuel trucks. Just a field. Gustav is a very good pilot. He lands us smoother than when Mama sits down on a hemorrhoid.