Flight #116 Is Down by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

“Work to do. Flashlight,” she added, taking Heidi’s. Betsey stumbled over the debris toward the largest portion of the plane, the immense center, from which a rubber slide now extended. A small man crouched nervously at the top. So far up! Heidi was afraid of the height, and she was the one on the ground.
    But they had to get out.
    The fire in the torn wing actually roared. She had heard this description but had not known it would be true: like cars lined up to start a road race, motors roaring.
    The flight attendant rallied, with what core of strength Heidi could not imagine, and began shouting encouragement. “Come on, it’s fine, I’m here, slide on down, good work, keep moving!” The little man shot down toward her, and she caught him like a toddler on a water slide and set him upright. “Next!” called Betsey, like a cheerleader. “Get a rhythm here! I’m catching! We’re doing good! Next! Come on! Next!”
    They catapulted down. The slant was not for the faint at heart, and surely anybody who had just been through a plane crash was now faint at heart. In fact, she was amazed that the survivors hadn’t followed up their crash with cardiac arrests.
    Betsey turned, saw Heidi staring, and bellowed, like a trumpet in war, “Get that baby up to the house! Then come back down for more!”
    Heidi rushed. The flight attendant had that kind of presence: I order, you obey.
    She passed people sobbing, moaning, calling out in several languages. Saying, Help me. I’m over here. Help me. Please help me.
    I can never move them all, thought Heidi.
    Despair made her sob right along with them.
    When she looked back over her shoulder, the extent of the carnage overwhelmed her.
    We can never do all this! she thought.
    The boy Patrick was suddenly next to her. He was carrying one end of a stretcher, and the person carrying the other end was a fireman. In uniform. The fireman wore an ugly yellow canvas-rubber sort of coat, the back of which read,
HARRIS
    NEARING RIVER
    VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPT
    Help had come.
    Help was here.
    The 911 call had worked.
    She had done the right thing after all.
    “But we can’t move everybody!” cried Heidi. Her pathetic thread of a voice drowned in the racket around them.
    “It’s like saving the world, honey,” said the fireman, as he and Patrick passed her. “Nobody can save the world. But you can make up your mind to save one person. Now don’t let your mind think on the size of this. Cripples you. Take that baby up and come down for another.”
    Saturday: 6:10 P.M.
    Her quiet house, home to so few people, so rarely there, was as full as if her mother were hosting a New Year’s Eve gala.
    She could not believe the number of human beings surging through her house.
    It seemed hours ago that she had stood here alone, weeping and paralyzed. There was chaos inside the house, and yet it was orderly and it was not frightening. People were calmly doing their jobs, seeing a need, answering it. Somebody took the papoose box out of her arms.
    Like a sleepwalker, Heidi passed through the Hall, crossed the Gallery, and stepped out her own front door. A maelstrom of lights, strobes, bullhorns, and flashers had turned the quiet courtyard into a fireworks celebration. Fire trucks were arriving. Ambulances were already here. Cars had poured into the courtyard. A row of pickup trucks had parked up against the low stone wall and trained their headlights to illuminate the crash site.
    She looked down at her watch.
    Half an hour since the plane came down, thought Heidi. I usually can’t even get dressed that fast. And here in half an hour, I’ve saved lives, passed out coats, met rescuers.
    Relief had barely lit Heidi’s face when it vanished. The ambulances were ready to leave … but the lane was too narrow. There was no exit. As the cars and trucks of rescue workers poured up the driveway to Dove House, they then filled the lane.
    What good is rescue if we have gridlock? thought Heidi. She stepped out