The night sky over the Pacific was a vast, velvet void, broken only by the steady hum of Flight 822. Onboard the Boeing 777, 290 souls were suspended 35,000 feet in the air, most lost in the hazy lull of a trans-oceanic crossing.
In the quiet of the pressurized cabin, the soft glow of seatback screens flickered against tired faces. Flight attendants moved like shadows through the aisles, offering blankets and water, unaware that the air around them was the only thing keeping a looming catastrophe at bay.
Seven-year-old Maya sat in seat 22A, her forehead pressed against the cold acrylic of the window. While her father snoozed beside her, Maya’s wide eyes were fixed on the massive silver expanse of the starboard wing, illuminated by the ghostly strobe of the navigation lights.
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