Breathe (In the Air) – Pink Floyd
Grace
I grab the microphone from its stand, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Do you guys have time for one more?"
The sea of people churns, screams of approval rising from its depths. Our audience spans Copacabana Beach, farther than the eye can see. It's so loud, I'm surprised the overcast sky doesn't begin to crumble. Their cries echo across the sand, vibrating the finite hairs of my inner ear. It's the kind of noise you feel in your heart—just like music. The crowd is a piece of myself, as much as I am a part of them. I can't help but grin, my cheeks growing sore with the effort.
This is it.
After nearly a decade, I've reached the pinnacle of my career. At twenty-seven years old, I can officially say I've made my mark in the world of rock 'n roll. Disgrace will go down in history with one of the largest recorded audiences.
Two million people.
And they're here to listen—to watch, to experience—us.
I glance behind me, catching eyes with my bandmates.
Devon, my childhood friend and the best female drummer on earth, twirls her drumsticks in hand, a wild smirk bewitching her face. Devon's Uncle Phillip and his husband, Orwell, tap the sides of their guitars, anxiously waiting for me to continue the show. I may be the lead singer, but I'd be nothing without these three.
After dropping out of Juilliard—much to my parents' worry—I lived in a garage with Devon for six months. Every night, we were either practicing or performing covers in Los Angeles dive bars. We were discovered by a major record label, given a contract the following week, and have become one of the most successful punk rock bands in music history.
As an ode to our roots, we dedicate our encore to a cover song. I've always loved reinterpreting my fellow musician's work—be it Taylor Swift, Kanye, or Jim Morrison. Tonight, we decided to throw it back with some Pink Floyd. We're speeding up the beat in the intro and bridge, but slowing them down for the vinal verse, which will allow me some wiggle room to play with the vocals.
While I prefer a classic baby grand, this song requires a majestic aesthetic, so I take a seat at the electric piano. The coattails of my fireproof military trench—something both necessary for fashion and safety, seeing as our performance involves pyrotechnics—flap in the breeze coming off the water. The crowd erupts once more, their energy palpable. My heart beats an erratic rhythm, and goosebumps erupt on my forearms despite the warm November afternoon. I feed off of the high, like a vampire tapping a vein.
Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around, choose your own ground
The song still echoes in my chest as we are ushered backstage. There's a sense of urgency as Devon, Phil, Orwell, and myself are loaded into the helicopter. With two million rabid fans surrounding us, we've been instructed to follow strict protocol in regards to our safety. Our main goal right now is to get the hell off the beach before any riots break out.
I slip my headset on, talking freely with the band as the chopper rises into the air. "That was fucking epic. Our best show yet."
"My foot nearly slipped from the pedal during the bridge," Devon pants, wiping at the sweat on her brow. Her brunette hair sticks to her temples, beginning to spiral. "You hit all four octaves!"
I place my hand on my throat, wincing at the ache. "I can feel it."
"You're drinking tea the second we board the jet," our manager, Kelly Pierce, says. He's in his late fifties with graying hair and a thin frame. He rarely looks up from his phone, but when he does, his orders are reserved for me. "We're due in Mexico City in less than a day. I can't have your voice cracking."
"My wrists are starting to hurt," Devon whines with mischief, flapping her hands in the air. "Kelly, can you get me a masseuse onboard as well?"
Our manager ignores her, typing a note into his phone as the helicopter catapults us across Rio. Orwell shakes his head in disgust. Phil snorts into his hand. Devon catches my gaze, rolling her eyes. I glance out the window, watching as we near the private airstrip.
Long you live and high you'll fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be
My combat boots pound into the tarmac. Besides the military coat, I'm only wearing fishnets and a leather leotard. My toes scrape the inside of my boots, undoubtedly forming blisters. I adjust my duffel bag over one shoulder, squinting as our captains come into view. Kelly reaches them first, shaking hands before placing one foot on the stairs that lead to Disgrace's private jet.
"Wait, Sir!" one of the pilots exclaims, setting his hand on Kelly's forearm. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but there's a storm brewing in the Amazon Basin."
My gaze shifts behind me, making sure the band is hearing what I'm hearing. Phil wraps his arm around Orwell's waist, a line between his brows. Devon tilts her head, scrunching up her nose in confusion.
"And?" Kelly asks, impatient.
The pilot—a native Brazilian if his dark hair, tanned skin, and accent have anything to say for it—hesitates, obviously not comprehending why he's being forced to explain himself. "Our flight plan intersects the storm. DECEA will be canceling flights at any moment."
Kelly finally gives the pilot his full attention, turning to face him. "Have they cancelled our flight?"
"Not yet, but—"
"We're in the middle of an international tour," Kelly interrupts, motioning for me to get onto the plane. I take a step back, waiting to see how this plays out. "There are eighty thousand people waiting for us in Mexico City. If we have to cancel that show, it'll be a nightmare. Ticket refunds, public apologies, adding dates to the end of our lineup. Is that what you want?"
"No, Sir," the pilot agrees, nodding at each of us. "We should be able to beat the weather. If not, flying around it won't be an issue."
Kelly claps the pilot's shoulder. "That's better."
Devon is the first to enter the aircraft, followed by Kelly. I bring up the rear, glancing behind me as the flight attendant shuts the cabin door. I bite my lip, a wave of anxiety pulsing in my stomach.
Relax, I tell myself as I claim one of the leather armchairs across from Devon and Kelly. The pilot wouldn't let us board if we were in danger. He was just telling us about the storm as a precaution. There will probably be turbulence, and he didn't want us surprised.
Still, I tug my phone from the side pocket of my bag, pulling up the group text I have going with my family, aptly titled 'Clusterfuck.' That sums up the Reeves-Robinson-Sterling-Allard hodgepodge we have going on at home in Pennsylvania.
Grace: Boarding flight to Mexico City. Love you guys.
After I've sent the text, I power down my phone and strap myself into my seat. The pilots mumble a few things over the intercom, and then we're taxiing and launching into the air. I tuck my AirPods into my ears, close my eyes, and let my mind drift.
Run, rabbit, run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
When at last the work is done
Don't sit down, it's time to dig another one
A loud crack has me jolting awake. A bright light is stamped on my retinas, but the cabin is otherwise dark. I grip my armrests, my teeth chattering as I glance at the familiar faces around me.
"What the fuck was that?" I exclaim.
Phil rolls his head to the side, smiling grimly. "Lightning."
"What?" I hiss, leaning toward the oval window. Thick gray fog rolls past. Raindrops are splattered across the glass, but disappear in less than a second. Even with the sound of the plane's engine, I can hear the rumble of thunder nearby. "We got hit by lightning?"
"Yeah. Look," Orwell says, taking the seat to my left. He leans across my lap, pointing toward something outside. "Wait for another strike. You'll see the mark it left on the wing."
Bile rises in my throat as another flash illuminates the sky. The strike is close enough that it breaks through the fog, allowing a brief view of our plane's wing. A shudder rolls through my bones when I see the jagged, smoky scorch mark—evidence that we were, indeed, struck by lightning.
"Relax, G." Devon reaches forward, giving my shoulder a playful shove. "Planes are designed to withstand lightning strikes. We're fine."
Of course, airplanes are designed to weather storms. Doesn't mean I want to see the plane I'm currently sitting inside get hit by 300 million volts.
In search of comfort, I tug my jacket around my torso, mumbling, "I know."
Sensing my anxiety, Orwell continues to sit beside me. Orwell and Phil may be twenty years older than me, but they're like my brothers. My band is my family away from home. Devon's my sister, and Kelly is the overbearing father none of us wants to be around. Like any family, we've had our ups and downs, but we always stick together.
Some time later, I feel Orwell lean across me once more. I blink the sleep away from my eyes, but my vision is still blurry with fatigue. We've been touring for three months, and we have another two to go. I forget how exhausting back-to-back shows can be.
"Why are we flying so low?" Orwell asks, almost to himself.
I glance out the window again, momentarily stunned by the beauty of this land. It appears as though we're soaring over a field of lush grass, but it's actually the treetops of the Amazon Rainforest. We're so close that I can see them sway in the violent wind, their limbs bending and bowing, accommodating the force of nature.
Kelly clears his throat, glancing up from his solitaire app. "We're flying low to avoid the storm, obviously."
"You don't fly under a storm to avoid it," I argue, my hands beginning to shake. No, not my hands. The plane is shaking. "We should be going over it. Or around it. Right?"
Kelly's dull eyes meet my panicked ones. "Do I look like I work for air traffic control?"
I notch my chin toward the cockpit. "Ask the stewardess why we're flying so low."
"Diva," Kelly mutters loud enough for me to hear. He stabs his middle finger into the call button above his head. It takes the middle-aged stewardess five seconds to approach, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt with her hands as she does. When she reaches us, Kelly launches my question at her. "Gracie is getting nervous. Do you know why we're flying so close to the ground?"
The woman tilts her head, observing the view from our window. "Due to the storm, our plane has temporarily lost communication with DECEA. The pilot has decided that it's safer to fly below cloud cover."
Beside me, Orwell's face goes pale. "We're flying blind?"
"I assure you, this aircraft's instruments are working perfectly." The stewardess nods vehemently, her eyes wide. She's trying to be comforting, but she looks like a barn owl and it's freaking me out. "You're in safe hands."
Devon rises from her seat, stretching her limbs above her head. Her expression is practically bored. She shrugs once, turning toward the rear of the plane.
"Devon, sit your ass down and put your seatbelt on," I order, pointing at her seat.
She pauses, shocked by the alarm in my tone. "I have to pee."
"I don't care if you piss you pants. Sit."
"You're going to give yourself an aneurysm, G," Devon argues, but her voice is softening. She takes a step in our direction, placing her hand on her seat back. "Honestly, you're more likely to be attacked by a shark than get in a plane crash."
"First of all," I start, holding up a finger, "that's not true. And second of all, are we in the ocean? No, we're on a fucking plane. So, why are we talking about sharks when you should be buckling your damn seatbelt!"
A brief moment of silence stretches between us, followed by a loud, mechanical whine—like metal being bent in half. I see the panic flash in my best friend's eyes. I feel the sudden icy quality to the air, sinking under my skin. I hear my own heartbeat threatening to burst my eardrums.
And then the plane drops.
Devon, the stewardess, and Orwell—all three not wearing their seatbelts—are catapulted into the air. I've never seen the human body tossed around like that, like it's nothing. When they land on the floor, Devon is completely still. Orwell and the stewardess are moving slowly, grasping at the backs of their necks.
"Holy shit!" Kelly exclaims, his face the color of putrid milk. "What happened?"
"Dev!" I scream, fumbling for my belt.
"Keep that on!" Phil orders, removing his own. He crawls from his seat, staying close to the floor as he nears his niece, who is lying on her stomach in the aisle. "Kelly, can you let the pilots know we have injured passengers?"
Kelly's fingers tremble while he slips his seatbelt off, tripping over his feet as he heads toward the cockpit door. All the while, the entire plane is rocking back and forth. The oxygen masks have been deployed, and I can't figure out why we aren't using them. I peek out the window, realizing we've managed to regain altitude. The trees are a blur once more, and gray whisps are passing by the glass.
"Devy," Phil coos, brushing Devon's dark hair from her face. I lean forward, watching avidly as Devon blinks her eyes. "You hit your head pretty good, squirt. How you feeling?"
"Wha happen?" Devon moans, trying to sit up.
"You should've listened to Gracie. That's what happened." Phil gazes at me, nodding once to let me know she'll be okay. "Now, sit down and put your seatbelt on so I can make sure my husband is breathing."
"I'm still breathing," Orwell grumbles, using the serving table to prop himself up from the floor. "You aren't getting that lucky."
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. Phil smiles warmly at Orwell, then kneels beside the flight attendant, helping her to her feet. Orwell slides into the armchair on my left side, clicking his safety belt. Devon props her butt on the edge of her seat, looking confused as she searches for the metal fastener to latch herself in.
"Here," I say, leaning forward. "Let me hel—"
Everything happens at once. I can't keep track of events, and I'm too shocked to feel anything but my own absolute terror.
The nose of the plane dives, causing my head to slam into the back of my seat. The G-force is so strong, I can't even turn my neck. Kelly, Devon, Phillip, and the stewardess all go flying toward the back of the plane, out of my line of sight. I hear Devon and Orwell scream. I hear Phil grunt.
And then nothing.
Nothing but the groaning of the plane's engines.
Nothing but the crack of thunder.
Nothing but the blood pumping in my ears.
From my peripheral, I see the earth, but it doesn't look right. Instead of being parallel to the ground, our plane is perpendicular.
We're falling.
Straight.
Down.
Long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
Balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave
***
Payton
"Are you hoping to make it to the playoffs this year?"
I adjust my cufflink, trying not to roll my eyes at the reporter's question. "Of course. I think every team hopes to get the opportunity to be in the playoffs."
Another sports journalist steps forward, shoving her recording device in my face. "And how do you think your offense will fare against some of the better teams in the league?"
"We are one of the better teams in the league," I answer, smiling so as not to appear cocky.
I glance toward the clock at the back of the press room, which sits right above the television. I've been counting the seconds until this interview is over. This is my least favorite part about professional football, by far. I just spent four hours busting my ass on the field. The last thing I want to do is strap myself into a three-piece suit and play politics. Unfortunately, these goons have been promised a half hour of my time, and I'm only fifteen minutes through.
"Last week, you fell pretty hard to Seattle. Tonight, you've proven that New Orleans is a team that doesn't take no for an answer. Can you give us some insight into how you bounce back from a loss like that?"
"It's a team effort," I say. God, I sound like an asshole, but I'm running out of lines. "We learn from our mistakes, and get ourselves ready to prove it on the field."
I can't help myself. I'm looking at the clock again, only something else catches my attention. The television on the back wall was showing highlights from our game, but the screen has switched to an emergency broadcast. I squint, trying to read the headline.
"Besides the playoffs, are there any short-term goals you'd like to complete before the end of the season?"
Plane crash.
"If you had to identify a weakness in your offensive line, what would that be?"
Wreckage in the Amazon.
"Do you think your family would be proud of how you played this evening?"
Fatal.
"Do you have any plans to relocate after this season? We've heard rumors that quite a few teams are hoping to bid on you."
The sensational rock band, Disgrace.
My heart ceases to beat.
Without a word, I stand, my chair scraping across the linoleum. I hop down from the platform and disappear through the double doors as the reporters begin to yell my name. When Coach catches me passing through the hall, he reaches out, but stops himself when he sees the look on my face.
My skin is numb. My vision is tunneling. I can't breathe.
Not her. Not her. Please, God. Not her.
It takes me a few tries to pull my phone from my pocket. When I manage to unlock the screen, I see that I'm already getting an incoming call. I struggle to speak around the boulder lodged in my throat.
No, no, no, no, no...
"Hello?" I croak, leaning against the tile wall outside of our locker room.
"Fuck, Payton," my best friend cries into the phone. At the sound of Aidan's sorrow, my knees buckle. I sink to the hard floor, feeling all the oxygen drain from my body. "Did you see the news?"
I knock my skull against the wall, gritting my teeth through the pain. "Yes."
"We're at JFK now. Our plane leaves in an hour." I listen to Aidan's heavy breathing, wondering how he's getting air into his lungs. I seem to have forgotten that basic function. "She's in surgery."
I pull the phone away from my ear, biting my knuckles to muffle the feral moan of relief that scrapes out of my throat. If she's in surgery, that means she's alive. Acid-like tears gather on my lower lids, slipping over and onto my cheeks.
"—you there, man?" Aidan asks.
"Yeah," I rasp, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, I'm here."
"It's really fucking bad," Aidan curses, choking on his words. As he speaks, I rise from the floor, barreling through the half-empty locker room in search of my go bag. A few of my teammates catch my eye, concern brushing across their faces. "The pilot got disoriented in a storm. He lost communication and flew way off the flight plan. One of the engines exploded. The trees helped break their fall, but then it started a forest fire. It took the rescue team hours to get them out. They weren't expecting to find anyone alive."
I snatch my bag from the hook inside my locker, then slam the door closed. Since I travel so much for work, I always keep a few changes of clothes and essentials in a duffel. I'm due in Miami tomorrow night, but that won't be happening.
By the time I'm buckling myself into the backseat of a hired town car, Aidan ends the call to board his plane. I give my agent a ring, then shoot a text to Coach to let him know there's been an emergency. As per my contract, I'm allowed to miss two games during regular season. In the eight years I've been playing for the NFL, I haven't been absent for a single one.
The Reeves's are my second family. My mom left when I was six—went out for a bottle of wine and never came back—leaving my pops to raise me on his own. Fred Arlington did the best he could, but it's hard to be a father when you've got seven different voices inside your head. He was hospitalized quite a few times while I was a child. Instead of landing in foster care, Aidan's family took me in. They come from a different socioeconomic background, but Aidan's mom made me feel like one of her own.
Being with the Reeves family—being near Grace—at a time like this isn't a decision, it's an absolute necessity. I'll lose my mind if I'm not in her immediate vicinity. I just need to see her once. I need to be sure she survived. Until that point, I'll be useless on the field.
My driver drops me off at the airport. I board the first available flight to LAX, then transfer to the international terminal to search for flights to São Paolo. I'm forced to stand by for a few hours, but eventually, I snag a coach seat that will land me in Brazil approximately eighteen hours after the Reeves's get there.
News has spread, even throughout the airports. While I'm waiting in line to purchase a coffee, the television above the barista shows an overhead view of a section of the Amazon Rainforest. A giant hole, lined with charred bark and burning leaves, preludes to the crash site below. The tail of the aircraft can be seen jutting toward the sky, with the nose buried somewhere in the jungle.
I bought a ballcap and sunglasses from a bodega. Combined with my wrinkled suit, I'm not in the best disguise, but it seems to deter people from asking for my autograph or a picture. Mind you, I'm walking three times faster than the average human, so it's possible they just don't catch me in time.
When I land in São Paolo, I haven't slept in nearly thirty-six hours. The sun is in the center of the sky as I hail a cab, but by the time I reach the hospital, it's four in the evening. Traffic in this city is asinine.
A crowd of less than a hundred is gathered around the visitor's entrance. Some of them are holding signs above their heads—Case comigo, Gracie and Salve os deuses—and singing Disgrace's biggest hits at the tops of their lungs. Local police have set up a blockade, keeping people from coming within twenty feet of the automatic doors.
Aidan's text messages direct me to a side entrance, where a security guard is waiting to escort me into the building. He doesn't say a word as we ride the elevator to the fourth floor. My eyelids are heavy. Every time I blink, it feels as though someone is scraping sandpaper across my corneas. My hands haven't stopped shaking in who knows how long, and I'm fairly certain I'll collapse if I don't remember how to breathe soon.
The doors slide open, depositing me into the burn unit. I swallow down the ominous shiver those two words—burn unit—entail, continuing down the hall toward the nurse's station. Just as I'm about to ask one of the hospital staff if they can point me in the direction of the Reeves family, my best friend comes jogging into view.
With bloodshot eyes and greasy hair, Aidan Reeves looks just as bad as me. He pulls me into a hug, slapping my back before fisting his hand around my jacket. A momentary relief nearly has me sagging into him.
"She's stable," Aidan wheezes, stepping backward so that he can look me in the eye. He nods, running his tongue over his teeth. "But she's not doing so well mentally."
My heart skips a few beats as I process his words. "Mentally?"
He rakes his hand through his hair, tugging me away from the nurse's station. "The media has confirmed three deaths. The pilot, copilot, and the stewardess."
"Trust me, I've been staying updated."
Aidan pauses at the end of the hall, scratching at his dark beard. "Kelly, their manager, didn't make it. The only survivors... Fuck, the only survivors were Grace and Orwell."
I freeze, my lungs turning to ice. "Were?"
Aidan nods, taking a deep breath. "Orwell died about an hour ago. His lungs were pulverized by the smoke. There was nothing they could do."
"Fuck," I groan, scrubbing my hands over my cheeks.
It's no wonder Grace isn't handling things. She just lost all of her bandmates—people she's performed with, lived with, traveled with for nearly a decade—in one fell swoop.
Jesus.
Now that I'm here, all I want to do is see her. But I can't go barging into her room. Our relationship is complicated at best. As much as I wish things were different, Grace doesn't need me muddying the situation. At the end of the day, I'm here for myself. I'm here because I couldn't be anywhere else.
"Has she said anything?" I ask.
Aidan opens his mouth to respond, but it takes him a few tries to formulate the words. "She's, uh... No, she hasn't said anything. She can't."
I crinkle my brow. "She can't what?"
He spears his fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots. "She can't speak!"
I watch Aidan pace, my mind shrouded in confusion. "I don't understand."
"She inhaled exhaust. It was so hot. And toxic..." Aidan scrunches his face up, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes. When he finally looks at me, I see the utter devastation on his expression. Not for himself, but for his twin sister. "She has third degree burns inside of her throat. Her vocal cords were damaged beyond repair. She can't speak, Payton."
I stare at him, at a loss for words.
Aidan takes a deep breath, hitting the final nail in the coffin. "Grace is mute."