An air pocket, a downward gust, too much headway lost when he turned? He dropped hard, struggling to clear the tent, his own mouth opening as Palmer jumped from the ridgepole and slid down the canvas, reaching to pull Raney after him. A thump—something hitting the ridgepole—two thuds, a clatter, the pull of gravity, the crunch of bamboo collapsing around him and then he was upside down, hanging from his shoulder straps, caged in broken struts and shredded cloth, the engine still sputtering behind him. Pants and shoes and skirt hems and boots, a dog nosing past a tangle of wire. What had been his front wheel spun slowly above; his top wing lay crushed below his head. His feet were pointed at the sky. Someone was crying, someone screamed twice and was silent, someone cursed steadily and savagely as someone else begged for him to stop. He’d swept the people from the tent, he heard. Both men were hurt, but they could walk. His own hands could open and shut but he didn’t know what to do with them. His wings had hit the girls, he heard: one was dead and the other—me—was badly hurt. He couldn’t see them or the hangar or the blood sprayed around, the automobile dented by the falling girl, the doctor who pronounced the other girl dead. Only the legs surrounding him, and a bit of sky, and his front wheel. Someone reached through the wreckage with a knife, to cut his shoulder straps and pull him free, but even before the knife touched leather he could feel the hands of the souvenir hunters tearing off scraps of the cloth. My aunt still has some of the postcards Mr. Benner made from this scene.