Terrain Ahead. Terrain Ahead, the GPWS blares. Terrain Ahead. Terrain Ahead.

  Beads of sweat drip down Dana’s nose. His fingers tighten around the throttle lever. The pain in his arms worsen as the aircraft tilts. His mouth is dry, and the heat of the rising sin only makes it far more difficult for him to breathe. Despite sitting in the dark for hours; the 737 had managed to do what he wanted it to—before he heard a loud bang outside. The second, third, and fourth engine failed, so he had choice but to shut them off.

  Terrain Ahead. Terrain Ahead. Terrain Ahead.

  Dana has the map close in front of him. Based on the navigation system on the computer, he is only some two hours and fifty minutes away from the Bahamas. He’s had go off route several times because of two storms had gathered ahead, and he didn’t want to take his chances. But as much as he tries to keep himself calm, his breathing is labored. His neck and back are cramped from sitting in the same spot for nearly four hours.

  Terrain Ahead. Terrain Ahead.

  As the aircraft begins to roll, Dana grits his teeth. If he can’t increase the airspeed, he knows the jet will stall. He starts the lower the nose, level both wings and increase the power to forty knots. But his efforts are futile as the numbers flicker in front of his panicked face. The sudden drop of force makes his stomach curdle and twist as the jet loses altitude.

  Pull up. Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.

  Dana applies more force to the throttle, but as the jet clears through a dense layer of fog, he can make out the tops of trees. Despite the vibrations rocking through the jet, which is tilting sideways again, Dana once more attempts to lower speed. The 737’s right wing clips against a tree, sending the aircraft spiraling through the dense vegetation.

  Pull up, TAWS continues. Pull up.

  Desperately, he reaches over to push onto the control yoke, attempting to raise the nose. He sees yellow and orange smoke rising in the air. His eyes widen as he feels for his pocket—where he thought Snowball was sleeping, but it is empty. The mouse. He needs to protect his friend, but he isn’t anywhere to be seen. He can only see green leaves, tree, blue sky, parts of cloud. He tries to stop the plane, to just get it down.

  Pull up—

  * * * * * * * *

  Dana raises his head.

  He’s lying sideways in a ditch, bruised and bloodied. The smell of fuel and burning leaves clogs his senses. Using both arms, he manages to crawl his way over to the wreckage, which is still on fire, burning slightly. Pieces are scattered across the ground. A ringing settles in Dana’s ears as he crawls on his hands and knees. With what remaining strength he has, he begins to lift over the scraps of metal and dirt. He wants to scream Snowball’s name, but can’t. He moves aside bushes, plants, mud.

  This isn’t the Bahamas.

  Dana knows that for sure. But no matter how far he looks, he sees that there are simply woods and that is it. That is all. He sees no buildings, no cars, no people. Only the remains of the 737, which is still nestled above in the trees. It looks below at Dana, like an angry entity ready to strike him down. The young man frantically lifts and pushes aside, trying to catch a glimpse of white fur. He’s checked his pockets a million times. Why didn’t he keep a better eye on Snowball?

  It starts to suddenly starts to rain, which finally extinguishes the flames. Smoke rises the air, settling around Dana. He’s wandered around in circles, water drenching his dirty janitor uniform. He climbs into the plane, his bloodshot eyes scanning the ground. The mouse’s limp form comes to view, curls up on a passenger seat. Dana slowly picks Snowball up, holds the mouse in his hands.

  For the first time in years, fresh tears roll down his sunken, dirty face. He sinks to his knees, fighting back a sob, but another one comes, ripping and shaking him apart. He didn’t mean to do this. If only he had grabbed him upon impact. If only he had been paying closer attention. It’s one of the things that Uncle John would get constantly mad about. Whether he couldn’t stay focused on certain tasks, it would be a blow to the head.

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  Cradling Snowball close to him, he exits the plane. It takes him a few hours before he finds a decent spot to honor his best friend.

  * * * * * * *

  Dana scoops out soft, warm earth with his hands; before gently placing the mouse into the hole. After stroking the animal’s fur one last time, he covers up the spot with a mound of dirt; adding dandelions and thick green leaves on top of Snowball’s grave. He is about to look for some more stones when a voice loudly echoes through the trees.

  ”Hello?”

  A chill runs through Dana’s spine; he gets to his feet. Slowly, he positions himself behind a bush. Down the hill, nearby the jet, is a figure. It’s still a bit hard to tell due to the fog around, but as they get closer, Dana shrinks back in the shadows. Mosquitos are biting into his arms, but he doesn’t move. He freezes.

  ”Hello?” This time, it is softer. “Is anyone there?”

  A young man comes into view, barefooted and filthy. His blonde hair is long and matted, up to his back, and a thick, scraggly beard upon his sunburned, freckled face. The rest of his body is covered in scars, blisters, and all sorts of bumps, which he pauses to vigorously scratch with his curved, hook like black fingernails. He’s wearing some sort of animal skin—a long robe, perhaps—that is up to his knees and ragged at the edges. It’s stained with dark red blood, including his beard and his lower jaw. He hungrily stares at Dana’s footsteps, murmuring to himself. A wavering smile is on his cracked lips.

  He is about to be this cannibal’s next meal.

  “Hello?” the native weakly calls again.

  But it’s his eyes that makes Dana’s skin crawl. They are enormous, extremely blue, much too big for his face, sunken in, as if they wish to take everything apart in front of them. The stench of rotting flesh from the native is so bad that it makes Dana dizzy. He removes his shoes to avoid stepping on any twigs to attract attention, and, without a sound, takes off barefooted as quick as he can into the dense fog. He does not stop running.

  He is not in the Bahamas.

  * * * * * * * *

  After a poor night’s sleep, Dana crawls out from his hiding place below a hollowed tree. He doesn’t want to go out in the opening, but he really needs to go to the bathroom. Once he’s finished relieving himself behind a tree, he peeks out with one eye. His stomach grumbles as he slips his shoes back on.

  He’s never been so hungry in his life.

  It takes him all day to gather enough courage to return to the wreckage, but not before adding more fresh flowers to Snowball’s grave. He needs to find the maps—hopefully a few weren’t consumed by the flames. A part of him wants to stay below the tree forever, but he knows he needs to go back. On the way, he makes sure to cover his footprints. He’s not the only one looking for a meal.

  Dana sneezes and approaches the plane. It is still nestled between the branches, still swaying back and forth due to the wind.

  Something bright and yellow catches his eye. Mangoes. They are soft to the touch, and before he can stop himself, Dana raises one to his mouth, juice running down his chin. The flavor is sweet, tangy, and he sits down to enjoy the rest of it, his legs dangling by the aircraft’s entry. He sets the seed down. Just as he’s about to pick up another one, he suddenly stops and stares out at the trees.

  He can’t see anything past them, but there a strange sensation over him—like someone is watching. Panic rises over him. He stuffs all of the fruit in his pockets. Just as he is about to turn and leave once more, he pauses to look behind him again, but sees nothing but trees.

  Endless trees.

  * * * * * * *

  Do you remember what humans look like?

  Yeah, he calmly says. They have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and ears. Oh, yeah, and they come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Why?

  Am I human? Do I look human to you?

  He blinks. Wait, what do you mean?

  I’m not human, am I? the voice whispers.

  What do you mean?

  I wouldn’t have seen you as a human before.

  * * * * * * *

  Dana is a bit wary as he drifts off to sleep beneath his new shelter. His stomach is full, but his mind is racing with thoughts. He’s dozing off when he hears footsteps. His eyes are nearly closed. He doesn’t move, not even as two dirty, bloodied bare feet step through the dead leaves. Something is on the ground. He’ll build a raft, be out of here in a moment.

  When he wakes up the next morning, something catches his eye.

  On a curled up leaf lie a pile of mangoes.