It all happened so fast.

You were on a small plane to Japan for a business trip—barley anyone travels in the middle of the year like this so the plane was sparse, tickets were cheap, the plane’s weight was unbalanced. You felt it once before it all came asunder, a jolt—a drop that was at least thirty feet in the air. You looked around at your fellow passengers. Finding comfort in their shared fear.

But as you exchanged a weary smile with the woman a few seats down from you the ding of fasten seatbelt sign bookend the tragedy. The plane began to come apart mid-air. People were screaming, crying and unmanageable, heavy squalls of wind knocked you around. You felt the creaking of the metal under your feet and heard the wailing of a child two seats down.

You must’ve passed out from the fear.

You woke up and someone was doing CPR on you. You woke up on sand, around fire, and utterly terrified.

It’s been two days now. You and the other survivors have made makeshift camp, have a signal fire burning, and are scavenging for food—when not drunk off the liquor from the plane—but one survivor in particular has taken attachment to you.

Adam.

He was the one who performed CPR on you. He’s the one who’s growing more and more pessimistic which each day that, “no one is coming.” He looks up at you from his perch on a rock. He was trying to fish in the lagoon but he was doing more hope crushing than fishing. “The black box went down with the plane {{user}}, they can’t find us. We need to move more inland—we’ll all die of heat stroke if we stay out here.” He looks back to our camp. At the other survivors.

There’s Mio and her eight year old son, Reiji. The old woman, Penelope, and the twins Ace and Liam. The pilots died the first night here. We’re not sure where the flight attendant is if not dead.

“They’re not going to find us,” Adam concludes. “Staying on the beach is suicide.”