Looking down on the earth from 30,000 feet sure changes the way you see things. Maybe even your whole life.

 

Crashing into the earth can do that, too. But it can’t ever wipe out the ache to fly again.

 

It was a routine helicopter transport flight. I’m in the Air Force, used to that sort of thing every so often. Making small talk, showing off the car I built in my brother’s shop with my own two hands to the guys who wonder how a woman made it to an Air Force lieutenant so young.

 

Then — smoke. I think someone made some joke about it being a barbecue. It sure wasn’t.

 

Smoke everywhere. Stinging my nostrils, choking me. Couldn’t get air — slamming into the ground, arms pinned down under twisted, ice-hot metal wreckage —

 

One glimpse of the dark sky above me through the flames. Something white flickers. Stars.

 

Then darkness.

 

~*~

 

Pain.

 

Light flickering. Stabbing the back of my eyeballs.

 

I try to roll over and find something attached to my arms.

 

Something shuffles near the doorway, but the world fades to darkness again before I can make it out.

 

~*~

 

A hand pressed over mine. Calloused fingers. From working so hard in the shop, of course. 

 

Warm tears against my skin.

 

Blackness.

 

~*~

 

Floating. Emptiness. I’m staring into the blackness.

 

Something white flickers above me. Light. This light doesn’t hurt.

 

What is it? Familiar… I can’t remember.

 

Something like a soft, warm blanket around me.

 

The pain fades.

 

~*~

 

Broken voice. “God, please… please. Heal my sister.” Shuddering breath. “Amen.”

 

Slowly my eyes blink open. Light still burns, but not as badly as before.

 

“... Wulfie?”

 

My brother — Wulfram, but I’d lapsed into the nickname — jumps about six inches into the air before dropping back down to his knees next to the bed. “Cassie! You’re — you’re awake!”

 

“Why… why wouldn’t I be?” Something’s beeping next to me. I reach over to snooze the alarm and find a tube in my arm. “What—what happened?”

 

“You… you’re…” before my brother can finish, the door opens and a doctor rushes to the monitors next to the bed.

 

“Tell him—stop that beeping.” I force the words out—it hurts to talk—and manage to wave a hand in the doctor’s direction.

 

Wulfram smiles, but stays next to me, gripping my hand. Something wet trickles down his cheek as he looks up to the ceiling, closing his eyes.

 

The weight of the world fades from over me and I close my eyes again.

 

Sleep.

 

~*~

 

I knew sleep didn’t fix things. Known that since I was about twelve years old, listening to my brother come home high and my parents yell at each other. Blocking it out didn’t take too much practice, but I’d still wake up to an empty house and fridge most mornings. And people wondered how I fended for myself so well.

 

There was one night when things were different, though. Another kind of crash. And laying helpless in a hospital bed fighting to be strong against the pain… it couldn’t block out everything either. Voices that echoed of past nightmares.

 

“Cassie?” My brother Wulfram’s voice, worried. “Where are you?”

 

I crouched deeper in the corner of the closet. The darkness felt comforting to twelve-year-old me. Easier to breathe in.

 

“Cassie, if you don’t come out, I’m leaving.” His voice had that strange wobbly sort-of sound to it, like it did sometimes when he came home late at night, argued with Mom and Dad, then slammed the door of his room.

 

If he wanted to leave, then fine. Everyone else had. Mom and Dad never seemed to come home from their work at the factory, and when they did, it was only to fight with each other. Good riddance to whoever hired them to work in the same job.

 

The front door banged shut. I listened for a few minutes, then crept out of the closet and shut the door.

 

Slipping into the kitchen, I opened the door of the fridge. Empty glass shelves stared back at me. A half-empty bottle of ketchup in the back corner. An open Coke near the front. I grabbed the Coke and took it back to my room, burrowing into the pillows I pulled down from my bed onto the floor.

 

Hours later, when the night was heavy around me, the click of the front door stirred me out of sleep. Footsteps… I listened. Too soft to be my parents — then the door of my room swung open. I closed my eyes and laid my head against the pillows. Please go away.

 

“Cassie?” My brother walked across the carpet and knelt next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I pulled away. Though at least his voice sounded calm for once, instead of high-pitched because of whatever he was usually high on when he came home.

 

“Hey, Cass, I — I need to talk to you.” He settled down next to the pillows and patted my shoulder. No idea the last time he’d done that.

 

Grumbling, I rolled over and blinked a few times. “Wulfie, I’m tired…”

 

He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared toward the door of my room. A little light filtered down the hallway, probably from the kitchen.

 

His face looked pale. I sat up a little straighter on my pillows. The empty Coke can dug into my leg, and I tossed it down onto the floor.

 

Finally my brother turned to me and let out his breath. “Cass, there was an accident at the factory. Mom and Dad… they didn’t make it.”

 

The words don’t fully process in my head until the faint light glistens off a tear running down his cheek.

 

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry.

 

I feel for something on the floor, find the Coke can, and crumple the cold metal between my fingers. The sound echoes through the room. Wulfram glances at the can in my hands, then at me, then out into the hallway.

 

“They’re… they’re gone?”

 

He nods and wipes at his face, then stands. “I… I thought I should tell you. Get some rest.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

At the doorway of my room, he stops. “I have to get cleaned up. Everything.” He clears his throat. “So I can take care of you.”

 

I push myself to my feet and follow him into the hallway, reaching up — it’s only a few inches in height difference anyway — to grab his shoulder. “Wait. Please.”

 

He glances back at me, and the smallest smile forms on his face before it fades. 

 

I bite my lip and look past him toward the front door. “Where are you going?”

 

“I…” he runs a hand through his thick brown hair. “I saw a church down the street with a sign out. I think they could help me.”

 

The only time I’ve ever seen a church is on TV, clicking through channels. The people on there were wearing white robes or something, and all had the same happy smiles plastered on their faces. Church wasn’t for people like us, with empty refrigerators and yelling parents.

 

Wulfram slips out of my grasp. He picks up his jacket from a hook near the front door and shrugs it on, then glances back at me. “You’ll be okay on your own for a little bit?”

 

When was I not? I clenched the Coke can in my fist, then turned and walked back down the hall to my room.

 

The silence of the house drove its way deep into my chest. Mostly because it never was that way. Mom or Dad were always up late into the night, doing whatever it was they did. I’d guessed years ago, and decided I didn’t want to know further.

 

In a way… maybe it’d be easier to sleep without them always turning lights off and on. But they were the only parents I’d ever known. The only people, who, when I was younger, would give me a hug.

 

Now my brother was talking about getting himself clean — at a church, of all places. So he could take care of me. Apparently he hadn’t watched my life for the last five years, since second grade.

 

Still… something tugged at me, with the pillows surrounding me. A chill, maybe, but also wondering. Wondering what it’d be like if Wulfram did come home clean. What people in white robes could do to help him. And why they hadn’t bothered helping my parents.

 

I closed my eyes and buried my face in the pillows. Then after a minute, I rolled over again and stared at the pitch black of the ceiling.

 

Nothing came for a long time. Then I swallowed. Something in me ached to try. “God… if You’re up there, please… just help my brother.”

 

My words echoed in the stillness of the house as the night settled over me again. Something deep inside felt a little warmer, though.

 

~*~

 

It turns out that sometimes even your hardest fights aren’t good enough. Those three weeks I spent in the hospital, then another month recovering at home… and now a meeting, with some commander at the Air Force base. What could go wrong?

 

“What do you mean, discharged?” My last name patch — Bonnevelle — glints in the harsh fluorescent lights of the office as I pace in front of a desk.

 

“It’s for the best, Bonnevelle. You need time to recover.” Commander Max Tyson sits at a desk in the Air Force base office, holding my gaze firmly.

 

“Time to — but I’m already recovered!” I fight the urge to throw my hands up in the air. The burns on my arms haven’t fully healed, but the jacket hides that from him for now.

 

“Take off your jacket.”

 

Did he — I follow orders.

 

The pink scars trace my arms, the skin still swollen around them. I clench my hands behind my back.

 

“Now sit down.”

 

I sit in the chair across the desk from him. “Commander, I appreciate your concern, but I can do what I did before. These scars don’t change my ability to fly, and—”

 

“They’ve changed more than you’d admit to me, Bonnevelle. And that’s why I think discharge would be for the best. Honorably, of course—” at my frantic look — “so you can heal in other ways.”

 

“Like what?”

 

He gives me that steady look again, and I scoot back in the chair. “Commander Tyson, please.”

 

“Please what?”

 

“Don’t do this to me.”

 

Tyson sighs. “It’s not my choice, Bonnevelle.”

 

“You’re the one who’s saying you’ll discharge me.”

 

“I’m—” he stops and studies me for several seconds, then leans forward across the desk. “Bonnevelle.”

 

My pulse thumps, but I hold his gaze, willing him to see the strength I’ve clung to, finally started to rebuild.

 

He stares into my eyes for a long moment, then nods slowly. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“You will?”

 

“You heard me. Dismissed.”

 

“And—”

 

“Dismissed, Bonnevelle.”

 

I stand and salute, then walk out of the room, holding my head as high as I can. Inside, though, everything feels shaky.

 

What if he can’t do anything? Or doesn’t?

 

~*~

 

How on earth was I supposed to look for a bigger picture when I was stuck here on the ground?

 

“Cassie, you have to be patient. They’ll call when they make a decision.”

​

“It’s been three weeks, Wulfram!” I throw my phone across the room, and it lands on the couch. Wulfram walks over and picks it up, setting it on the counter. I grab it and swipe through the recents for calls, like I missed it. Of course I didn’t.

​

He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I tug away and whirl to face him.

​

The hurt in his eyes stops me for a moment. Then I huff and walk out to the driveway, still gripping my phone.

​

The crisp wind stings the burn scars even under my jacket, and I rub my arms. It doesn’t make it any better. Hasn’t stopped the nightmares either. Or even smelling the gas stove when Wulfram turns it on…

​

I pace past my red Bel Air out to the street, staring up into the cloudy sky.

​

Was Tyson right?

​

What was the point of even pulling me out of that crash if I can’t go back to the way life was before?

​

My phone buzzes and I nearly drop it, then move my suddenly-trembling hand enough to answer the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

​

“Is this Cassie Bonnevelle?”

​

Who else would it be? 

​

A chuckle on the other end of the line sends a wave of horror over me — no, I didn’t say that out loud to a commanding officer — but at this point, even if I did —

​

“Well, Bonnevelle.” I recognize the deep, rolling voice as Tyson’s. “Can you come to the base today? I have something I’d like to show you.”

​

“I — I’m not discharged?”

​

The line rustles. “No, you’re not. Meet me at the main base gate in half an hour.”

​

A click, and I’m left staring at the phone as I slowly walk back up toward the house.

​

Wulfram meets me at the front door. “He called?”

​

“Yeah.” The phone feels like a weight in my hand all of a sudden, and I set it on the shelf by the front door. 

​

“Is it… what did he say?”

​

“I’m not discharged. Meet him at the base in half an hour. Half an — I need to change, what did you do with my uniform, Wulfram—” already running down the hallway toward my bedroom, with Wulfram on my heels.

​

“It’s hanging in the closet where it usually is. I got it dry-cleaned—”

​

“You did what? Without telling—”

​

“Cassie, it’s—”

​

I pull the fatigues—ABUs in the Air Force—out of my closet and hold them up to the light for a moment, then look from them to Wulfram and smile. 

​

He returns the smile. “I took it to the professional place in town, Cassie. They do uniforms all the time.”

​

I nod slowly, staring at the camouflage print. 

​

I haven’t worn it since the day Tyson said he would discharge me.

​

Wulfram walks into my room and puts his hand on my shoulder again until I meet his gaze.

​

“Hey. It’s going to be all right. You worked for this.”

​

I swallow and pull the jacket off the hangar, slipping it on over my t-shirt and buttoning it up, then carry the pants toward the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I’m changed and staring in the mirror at someone I thought  gone forever.

​

As I head out the door, Wulfram follows me to my car. “I’m praying for you, Cassie. Let me know how it goes.”

​

I sit down in the driver’s seat and listen to the rumble of the engine, then rev it for good measure and head off down the road.

​

I arrive at the base at 10:58 AM, park in the visitor’s lot, then sprint back to the gate just as my watch beeps to signal the hour change.

There, standing next to the gatehouse, stands Tyson, also in uniform. He’s holding a package in his hands.

​

When I reach him, I come to attention and salute. Tyson returns the salute and nods for me to stand at ease. “I figured you could be here on short notice.”

​

“I didn’t have anything else to do. Sir.”

​

Tyson watches me for several seconds, then turns and motions to the soldier in the gatehouse to open the gate. 

​

Once inside, he leads me past the main barracks building, toward one of the hangars.

​

My pulse thumps, and I can hardly let myself breathe. Tyson stops outside a small hangar and motions me to do the same. He says something into his radio I can’t make out, then turns back to me, holding my gaze.

​

I swallow past the lump in my throat and match the intensity in his eyes.

​

“Bonnevelle… I’ve watched you these last few months. And to be frank, most others who had faced what you did would have gladly accepted medical discharge.” Tyson straightens and holds out the package to me. “You did not. And because of that, I’d like to give you this as a test. If you can show me you’ll hold up to the pressure despite what you’ve been through… you’ll not only be accepted back into the Force, but promoted to Captain.”

​

He thrusts the package into my hands, and slowly I pull the paper away.

​

It’s a plastic bag with several patches inside — I tear the plastic away, staring at it.

​

The wings of a golden phoenix rising from the ashes stare back at me on a dark blue, almost-black background.

​

I look at it, then back at Tyson.

​

He nods for me to fasten it on the sleeve of my uniform jacket with the temporary adhesive, and once I’ve done so, clears his throat. 

​

I straighten, glancing down at the other patches, counting them. Five others.

​

“Congratulations, Bonnevelle, you have been assigned command of a new squadron. The Phoenix Squadron.” As Tyson speaks, five figures step out from the shadows inside the hangar and line up at attention to Tyson’s left.

​

“Down the line.” I raise my head as he walks to one end of the line. “Newsie, Marker, Dare, Silver, and Roo. Don’t ask me how they got those nicknames or ask me their actual names. I don’t expect you to need them because they will all behave for you.” He pronounces each word slowly in that last sentence, looking at the boys in turn.

​

For the first time in I don’t know how long, a smile forms on my face. But I shove it away quickly as I come to attention and stride to each boy in turn, receiving their salute and returning it with my own, then handing them the patches.

​

Five members. No, six. Smaller than a normal squadron… but the thrill that courses through me just looking at this — what I barely let myself hope for — pushes that away as I glance up at the blue sky stretching above me.

​

Whatever is up there, I’m grateful for it.

​

I walk to Tyson and salute to him. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

​

He smiles a bit. “Don’t prove me wrong.”

​

Then he strides off back to the main barracks building.

​

After the door closes behind him, one of the boys —Tyson called him “Newsie”— clears his throat. “What’s next, Commander?”

​

A grin spreads across my face, and this time I don’t hide it as I face the row of boys. The Phoenix Squadron. My squadron.

​

“Let’s fly, boys.”

 

~*~

 

It turned out that the phoenix was a good symbol for the squadron. Its story was about rising from the ashes of defeat, being reborn into a new life. I had a lot of that.

​

Yes, more nightmares of pain and fighting to leave the past behind, and wondering how on earth I could trust in the present… but the phoenix patch stitched onto the sleeve of my uniform jacket was always there every time I slipped into my uniform.

​

Constant, almost. Like that little glimpse of that morning I stared up into the sky, when Tyson had just given me the squadron — and I knew that Someone saw.

​

Maybe that was where the bigger picture came from. Not the hours I spent flying toward the horizon line… but Someone who saw even beyond that, into what would come next. 

​

I ached, yes. But in that ache, I found a new life.

​

It’s enough to keep me looking toward the horizon — and beyond.

​

​