Justine’s body had remained strong and vigilant. She knew that if they survived their landing, the passengers would be even more in a frenzy to get off the plane. She vowed to shield West with her body even if the crowds ended up trampling her to death.
Anything to save her son.
The landing was awful. At one point, the plane tilted and threw Justine’s head against the chair in front of her. Still, she held as steady as she could, promising herself and her son and God that she would protect West to her dying breath.
And then they were on the ground. EMTs and emergency personnel flocked in. “Take my son,” Justine shouted at the first worker she saw. For the first time since the terror began, she allowed herself to willingly be separated from West. Her lungs were stained with smoke. She couldn’t move a single muscle. The only thing that mattered was West was safe.
Eventually, someone else came and escorted her off the plane. She was so weak she almost had to be carried, and her legs gave out the moment they reached the steady asphalt. Justine scoured the crowds for her son. When she saw him stretched on a gurney being attended to by two paramedics. One of them leaned over and laughed at something West said. Justine let out her choppy breath.
She had done it.
She had saved her son. Maybe her husband was right. Maybe God really had been protecting the two of them after all.
Everything was going to be all right.