And those evergreens he’d admired moments before rushed at him now as the ground rose toward him, much faster than was safe.

He was going down.

Chance pressed the button on the yoke and squawked to a local frequency. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” He detailed what he knew of the expected crash location, which wasn’t a lot.

He got no response. Nobody monitoring the frequency today in Nowhere, Montana. Just his luck.

Between evergreen-topped mountains, Ole Blue surfed along a ravine. Not a good place to land. He hoped for a clearing. Something.

Come on, come on, come on . . .

There. Between the trees, he caught sight of a forest road and aimed for it. It would be close. The trees were dense in places. Worst case, the wheels on his fixed-gear plane would catch the treetops and flip him forward. Dead or alive, he’d be stuck in the tops.

Come on, baby, you can do this.

Palms sweating, he squeezed the yoke. Continuing the mantra in his head, he willed Ole Blue to stay in the air just a little longer. When he’d proclaimed today was his last delivery, he hadn’t meant that to be a literal prophecy.

He mentally shook his fist at God. You hear that? I didn’t mean I wanted to die today. I just meant I’m done doing what I do.

A thousand thoughts blew through his mind at once, not the least of which was that if he made it, if he survived, he’d have to file a crash report with the NTSB. He was only supposed to take his flight bag from the crash site, but he’d have to make an exception this time and remove the package he was supposed to deliver.

The treetops reached up for Ole Blue, their lofty trunks and branches growing taller as if they would stretch to catch the plane’s wheels. The Piper shuddered. Chance held his breath, working the yoke until, finally, he maneuvered above the narrow road.

Lower, lower, lower . . .

The wheels touched down, and the plane bounced hard.

Trees closed in on the narrowing road. Chance braced himself. The wingtips caught the trees. The sound of metal twisting and ripping vibrated through him as the tin can protecting him shook and rattled. The impact shattered the window and catapulted what was left of his plane, and Chance’s body was flung like a rag doll despite the shoulder harness. Ole Blue slammed against a tree on the passenger side, crumpling the only door. Chance’s head hit the yoke handle. Thunder ignited in his temples as pain throbbed across his chest.

But the plane had stopped. Finally . . .

Seconds ticked by. He drew in a few shuddering, painful breaths. Allowed his heart rate to slow.