A/N: In speculation for the impending Season 8 Finale - the amazing J. M. Flowers and myself have decided to collaborate on a fic that portrays our thoughts on what could potentially happen. We aren't sure how long this will be. But we hope that you all enjoy our short little drabbles. We sincerely hope that you enjoy our little bout of fun :) For those of you waiting on updates on my other works, I promise that they will come this summer. This semester has been killer.

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Quick, quick, like on children. Tie the knot before they know what's happening; tourniquet to make the vein pop. Plunge the needle in at forty-five degrees. Then wait.

It's fast and dirty, clinical, like in the bathroom with Jackson. The heat that fills her is similar, too: a different sort of wonderful. She slumps back against the door as it parades through her bloodstream - the only thing she had left. When she closes her eyes, she prays that Jesus will still welcome her home.

The halls are quiet. Too quiet for the middle of the day, but Callie attributes the ghostly calm to the absence of doctors on their way to Boise. It's weighing down on her nonetheless, making the last half hour of her shift drag out. Heavy eyelids are telling her to sleep, but she needs cast padding to prepare for tomorrow. Arizona had been emotionally exhaustive, and Nick will most likely be gone before she returns. Arizona should have stayed, but she refused to let Karev near the case. Callie sighs; the door to the supply closet is jammed. Today is one for the record books. Squaring her shoulders, she shoves it open.

Dread leaks into her stomach the second she flips on the lights. Legs, covered in dark blue jeans, jut out from behind the door. She's suddenly wide awake, letting the door fall closed to reveal a slumped form. A tourniquet is wrapped around the pale arm, haphazardly knotted. Dropping to her knees quickly, Callie touches two fingers to the cool neck. No pulse. There is no rhythmic rise and fall to the chest. She brushes the red hair out of April's face. Eyes are closed. She gently cradles her head as she lifts her away from the door. Throwing it open again, she screams down the silent hall for help.

He thinks he might be falling backwards, straight through the phone and the voice on the other end of the line telling him the plane never landed in Boise. He stumbles into a chair instead, knuckles getting whiter with the force he uses to clutch the receiver.

It should've taken them an hour and a half. It's been almost three.

"I'll call the airport," he says.

"We already did, Chief Hunt." The chief of surgery at Boise, who called him a week ago, asking for help. His voice is just as gruff now. "TSA lost contact with the pilot an hour and forty-five minutes ago."

Halfway there.

"Thank you," he manages to choke out, though he's not sure why.

Her body falling back against the open conference room door is what turns him around. She watches his face twist from pain to bravery. She wasn't supposed to hear that. "Doctor Torres, what is it?"

"Hunt," she says, her voice wary. "Who was that?"

He sets the phone into its cradle. "Just business."

"Why are you calling the airport?" Callie questions.

He hesitates too long responding. "Shipment got lost."

"Dammit Hunt! Don't lie to me!" she snaps, charging forward. "I saw your face. What happened?"

The conflict of interest plays out in his eyes. She has family on that plane too. "The plane never landed. The TSA lost contact with them an hour and forty five minutes ago."

"What?" she says, sinking into an adjacent chair around the large oak table. They are at eye level. The implications are dredging through her mind. "April Kepner is in Trauma 3. She overdosed. I found her in a supply closet. She might not make it."

"What?"

"Trauma 3, Doctor Hunt." Callie swallows the lump in the back of her throat. Arizona is on that plane. Mark is on that plane. Lexie. Meredith. Cristina. Derek. They are all on that plane. And those that aren't, are trying to save April's life. She hardly feels Hunt squeeze her shoulder on his way past. "What are they doing?"

"What?" he turns back.

"Owen, are they dead?"

"I don't know."