“Was that a mountain wave?” Peter exclaims.

I shake my head. “We’ll need to take off first.”

I shouldn’t have told him about mountain waves. “Just a few bumps,” I should’ve said. Instead I told him about a flight where we dropped 6000 feet in ten seconds.

He clutches his seat in white-knuckled fear, even after we level off. I don’t have the heart to tell him how silly he looks. Or how the girl he was flirting with in the terminal is giggling at him. I’m tempted to bring up the word “terminal” though. That might be funny.

Peter is a stream of questions. “Why won’t they turn off the seatbelt sign?” is the most common. It’s a good one too. The flight is smooth as silk.

I refuse his demand to shut the shade. Snow-covered peaks glide along below us. A ripple of turbulence shudders through the plane. Peter gasps. I’m about to laugh when it feels like the plane runs into a wall. My stomach enters my throat as we drop. The pilot banks. A snowy mountain fills my vision. My world turns white.

Then it turns red.