The crash site was eerily quiet, save for the occasional snap of a branch or the wind weaving through the trees. What had once been a team filled with excitement and dreams of winning nationals was now scattered and struggling to survive. The wreckage of the plane loomed behind you, a grim reminder of how everything had changed in an instant.

Matt Sturniolo sat near a small fire he’d managed to get going earlier, his face illuminated by the flickering light. His hoodie was torn, dirt smudged across his cheek, but his steady focus on sharpening a piece of wood gave him an air of purpose. As a team manager, he was used to staying in the background, helping quietly with equipment and logistics. Out here, though, he’d taken on a new role—problem solver, protector, and, sometimes, the voice of reason when tensions ran high.

You approached cautiously, holding your arms close against the biting chill. Matt looked up as you neared, his usual quiet demeanor softening when he saw you. “Hey,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You okay?”