Thomas drives up one bank of the river and makes a U-turn to have enough room for take-off. Both banks of the river are rocky. If he doesn't maneuver slowly where the water is shallow, he won't see any rocks until we hit them. The wind has picked up and when we turn, it's on our tail, helping us move through the water and up into a smooth take-off.

The mountains are poking through the clouds, and I worry there won't be enough clearance to get the right altitude without flying through cloud.

Aimee is still conscious, and Dawn is coaching her on sipping small amounts of water, which she's finally able to keep down without any dry heaving. She doesn't look great, and she's not talking, which is not like her. A ticking clock in my head reminds me she's been without insulin for over an hour.

At 1,000 feet, my ears pop. The cloud base has dropped and is already thick. Thomas can't go any higher or he'll lose visibility and maybe hit turbulence, and Aimee doesn't need to be bumped around in her condition. But with the mountains up ahead, the pilot will have to keep a safe altitude. The hills are lush and green, and although I'd love for us to have more distance between us and them, flying at half our maximum altitude is the safest bet for now. I watch the gauges as Thomas adjusts our altitude, as I would.

In the distance, more mountains jut upwards. Above the tallest hills, the clouds thicken; we won't have enough clearance. We can increase altitude, but the clouds descend into our flight path. We're already too close to the ground, and there is definitely going to be turbulence, but Thomas stays the course and keeps as low as he can; his eyes on the horizon. I don't know him, but he looks calm, and being next to someone so in control helps me remember to breath. Relax. He's keeping us steady.

"Just a heads-up, ladies--we may hit a little turbulence, but the good news is . . ." He shifts to glance at his GPS.

"It won't last long," I cut in.

"Exactly. Brace yourselves for a little shifting. Puke bags are in the sleeve of the seat in front of you," he says over his shoulder to Dawn. "Yours is . . ." he pauses and points to the door.

"Right here," I say, opening the compartment in the door. "I'll be okay," I say.

As we reach the cloud base above the mountains, the plane vibrates. I grasp the armrest and hold tight as we're jostled around the plane. In a small aircraft like this one, any movement feels intense and amplified.

Thomas controls the plane's roll and pitch by holding the control column with one hand. With the other hand, he adjusts the throttle to recover from the bouncing. But seconds later, we're pitched nose up, the wings rolling up and down. In the next second, the plane drops. It's like riding a roller coaster in the fog--without the fun. I look at the monitor: we've dropped three-hundred feet. The force lifts us off our seats and back down with a bump. I don't get travel sickness, but this drop has me feeling queasy. Dawn lets out a yelp, and Aimee groans.

"Everyone all right back there?" Thomas asks.

"Uh-huh," Dawn says, opening a puke bag and holding it in front of Aimee. "Just in case," she says to me, but Aimee has enough energy to push it away.

"I'm fine," Aimee says, but her pale face and sunken eyes say otherwise.

"Just hang on," I say. "We're almost there." There's more turbulence and I hold onto my seatbelt, trying to keep from bumping into Thomas. He's a tall man, built, and our shoulders are touching, but I don't want to interfere with his maneuvering. When we start flying more smoothly, I let go, my fingers aching from hanging on so tightly.

Thomas regains our altitude and controls our pitch. The horizon is where it should be, but the engine is running roughly.

"What's that?" Dawn says, noticing the sensation. "It feels like we're stalling." Her hand is on my shoulder.

"What?" Aimee sits up, but she's not looking any better. Her face drains, and she leans back into her chair.

I place my hand on Dawn's, trying to be reassuring. She's trembling. "What's happening?" Dawn asks.

I stretch my neck out to look at the dash. Thomas notices my curiosity, but remains focused. "The temperature outside has dropped with the altitude we've gained. That, along with the intense humidity, means there might be icing on the carburetor."

"That's the engine?" Dawn asks.

"It mixes air and fuel for the engine," I correct her.

"So what happens if it gets iced?" Aimee asks. She looks weak and pale, but alert enough to follow the conversation.

There's a shudder throughout the plane, and then a lack of feeling.

The engine is stalling.

I turn back to Thomas. He checks the fuel mixture. There needs to be the right ratio of fuel to air in the carburetor. He makes sure the carburetor heat is on. Selects a different fuel valve. The ignitions are fine, left and right.

It's hard to describe an absence of sound. It's not silent, but there isn't the constant buzz and whirring there should be.

"What just happened?" Dawn asks.

"The engine stopped," I say.

"What the--" Dawn starts, but Thomas cuts her off.

"Just relax. This is going to be fine." He's so calm and collected, even though our engine has stopped mid-flight. "Marisa, how do you know that?" he asks me.

"Cadets."

"Great. What's next," he asks me, like this is a ground simulation, and we're not thousands of feet in the air in a stalled plane.

I remember my training. Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.

Aviate: I know what the problem is--icing. I know how to solve it, but it didn't work.

"Start the engine. Check the mixture," I say.

Thomas verifies as I speak. "Mixture rich," he says.

"Throttle full open," I say. "Three pumps of primer to get fuel to the cylinders to start the engine. Turn ignition." He does each step in tandem as I call it. I think to breathe.

Still nothing.

"It won't start," I say.

Thomas nods, but he's calm.

The girls in the back are stunned, watching and listening. Dawn has her hand over her mouth. Aimee has tears running down her face.

We're gliding, completely vulnerable to the winds around us.

Navigate: We're in the mountains. Beyond them there are fields where Thomas can land. There is a highway. We are north of the airport.

Communicate

Thomas activates the radio.

"Mayday Mayday Mayday

This is Cessna one-eight-five

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

Engine failure. Emergency landing. Five miles north of Joliette.

One-thousand feet. One-hundred-twenty KNOTS.

Four souls on board. FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO." Thomas's voice is stern, quick, and clear.

I count to three and hope someone will respond.

There is static.

Then a voice.

"Mayday.

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

FOXTROT ROMEO ROMEO KILO

This is Joliette tower.

Joliette tower.

Joliette tower.

Received Mayday."

They know where we are. They know where we're going. They know our trouble. But we have to land this plane.