Flight #116 Is Down by Caroline B. Cooney

looked for a telephone. There should be one in the kitchen. There was, and it was in use. She waited impatiently for the man using it to finish up. The man appeared to be a doctor, talking of doctor-ly things. “I’m a cardiologist,” he said into the phone, apologizing for choosing such a useless specialty. “I have no trauma experience. Patients are being moved without regard to technique. There’s a danger of explosion and fire, and it seems wiser to shift the victims as fast as possible than to worry about spines and necks. We need stretchers down here.”
    Darienne thrummed her fingers on the counter. Was the doctor a passenger or a neighbor? He wasn’t dressed right to be the owner of this house. She doubted that a mere cardiologist, no matter how successful, could afford this place. Unless he’d inherited it.
    “It’s a 747, and we were full,” said the man, proving himself a passenger. “Several hundred people on board, therefore. There are a surprising number of uninjured; I’m going to guess ten percent are walking away. I’m setting up treatment in the house, which is huge. So we’ll be able to keep patients warm and out of the rain, at least. But that’s going to be pretty much my limit.”
    Darienne looked at her watch. Her wrist was unadorned. She must have lost it during the crash. Well, she would charge the airline for that.
    “I don’t know about landing a helicopter,” said the cardiologist in his helpless voice. “The courtyard’s out. There’s a fountain in the center. The land behind the house slopes too much. There doesn’t seem to be an owner here.”
    No owner here? thought Darienne, looking around with a bit more interest. She would have to check out the rest of the mansion.
    “The local rescue people are arriving,” said the doctor. “I’ll have them call you.” He disconnected.
    Darienne picked up the phone immediately.
    She called the airline to which she was expecting to transfer and requested them to bump up her flight. They wanted to know to which flight she wanted to be moved. Darienne was irritable. She didn’t even know where she was, let alone how long it would take her to drive into the city. For all she knew she was in Pennsylvania, or Ohio, one of those inside states nobody cared about.
    A woman took Darienne’s arm. “We’re setting up triage in the biggest room here. We’re moving the furniture out into that long, thin hall so we can put the wounded flat on the floor. I need you to—”
    “I’m busy,” said Darienne.
    The woman looked at her incredulously. “You’re not hurt,” she said, “you—”
    “I’m busy,” repeated Darienne, making another phone call. She turned her back for emphasis. It was unfortunate that all those people were hurt, but she was not. Darienne regarded this as a sign. She had been spared. She was worth more.
    Saturday: 6:00 P.M.
    Heidi’s flashlight illuminated an oddly shaped open cardboard box. A lifesize baby doll was lying in it, clad in one of those knit one-piece suits. As she stepped over the box, the baby talked softly. Heidi stopped, legs straddling the cardboard, and stared down.
    The baby was alive.
    A woman in a military uniform said to her, “Papoose.”
    Heidi would have believed anything by now—Indian tribes, navy officers.
    “Carry the baby up to the house, papoose box and all,” said the woman. Heidi obeyed, resting the flashlight in the box with the baby. As the flashlight tipped, she saw that the military officer was wearing a name tag: Betsey!
    “I’m one of the flight attendants,” mumbled the woman. Some of her hair was no longer attached to her head. Blood streamed down that side of her face and onto her shoulder. Heidi could not bear to look at it. “You come up to the house, too,” said Heidi, wanting to clutch her own head in pain. “I’ll get a towel or something.” She wanted to press the scalp back down, stop it from looking so horrible.
    “Later,” said Betsey thickly.