When we board, Maria makes sure I’m on the aisle so I don’t feel cramped. We sit in the first row. I study the plastic emergency pamphlet. All the cartoon people look weirdly calm while they barrel down an inflatable slide into the ocean. My heart hiccups. I put the pamphlet away and rub my sweaty hands on my knees.

The plane jerks, and I grip my armrests as we pull away from the gate. This can’t be normal? I lean into the aisle and look behind me. People are already asleep or watching movies. When I turn back around, the flight attendant smiles and mouths, It’ll be okay, and then picks up a phone on the wall to explain how to put on your oxygen mask. I feel a little bump on the runway and tighten my seat belt.

And then the craziest thing happens. The flight attendant breaks into song. Right there in front of me as we rumble down the runway, she starts to sing “Leaving on a Jet Plane” at full volume into the intercom. I stare at her with my mouth open, and Maria smiles. She’s got a good voice. A little showtuney, but strong. And I know this song. It’s John Denver. I used to perform it before Mom decided it was too slow. It’s not slow how this lady’s doing it, though.

I close my eyes and smile. For a second I forget where I am and see us, Mom and me, at a farmer’s market in Oklahoma. I’m singing this song and it’s July and muggy hot, but the tips are piling up and the audience is easy and when it’s done, Mom scores us free fresh-squeezed lemonade, and it’s the coldest, sweetest thing I’ve ever had.

Then the plane jerks so hard I’m thrown back in my seat, and there’s a sound like a roaring animal. It shakes the whole plane, and I look down at my armrest swaying like my seat is attached to nothing at all. We’re crashing. I’m drowning in the noise and blinded in a wave of white panic. I try to cover my ears, but the sound creeps in around the edges. I taste the burrito coming up hot and chunky at the back of my throat. The roaring isn’t stopping. It’s never going to stop! I dig my nails into my scalp and pull hard at the roots. I stomp my feet over and over until they tingle. Somewhere, someone is screaming. It’s me.