Ok, I noticed that my chapters are kind of messed up – the numbering and such – I think I counted my preview/excerpt as Chapter 1 – apologies for any confusion, I will go back and fix that at some point as soon as I know I can do it without doing some kind of irreparable harm to the rest of the story (like deleting it). As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, and I appreciate everyone who gives a review/comment. . .you're the greatest.

Somehow, they'd gotten lucky. Well, Penhall amended to himself, he'd gotten lucky. He didn't know how he could call what was happening to Michael luck.

Unless he called it the worst luck imaginable.

The night had been one of the longest Penhall had ever gone through, but it would've been much longer if a series of minor – very minor – breaks had not befallen them. Even in the dark, he'd managed to find a branch to lift the wreckage off the young doctor so it wasn't resting directly on him – he was barely able to wedge it in, and the weight of the debris kept knocking it loose, forcing Penhall to keep a constant eye on it so he could replace it, but it was the best he could do. "Thank you, Doug," Michael said at one point, as if Penhall had just handed him the greatest gift in the world. "Thank you for trying to help me."

It was this very gratitude – gratitude that Penhall felt was completely misplaced, considering he hadn't been able to do anything remotely helpful – that led to the second stroke of luck. Even though, in the back of his mind, he knew it would be impossible to move this wreckage without some kind of tools, it didn't stop Penhall from trying. As the doctor drifted in and out of consciousness, Penhall began pulling at the metal from every angle until hand hands were cut and bleeding. On his last effort he'd pulled so hard he lost his balance and fallen against the opposite side of what was left of the tail section. His head banged against the wall and he could feel the wound in the back of his head -- where the bleeding had finally started to slow – open up again. He cursed out loud, touched the back of his scalp and caught sight of something shining on the floor. Curious, he reached for it and saw that it was a buckle on a knapsack.

Inside were a variety of things – some bottled water, a flashlight, some basic medical supplies and – the biggest gift of all – a lighter. Penhall could hardly believe it. Renewed by the thought of warmth, he felt a slight bit of optimism return and, now armed with a flashlight, went back out into the night in search of wood.

He managed to get a small fire going right outside where Michael lay trapped, and was attempting to wrap a bandage around his head when he heard Michael's voice. "Doug, did you see my wife? Could you have her come here, please?"

Penhall stopped what he was doing. "I didn't see her," he said, still trying to figure a way how to put the bandage around his head

"What about my daughter?"

His daughter? Wasn't she back in the States? Penhall froze at the realization of what was happening. "Mike, your daughter is safe at home," he said, carefully. He went and crouched by the trapped man. "Do you know where you are?"

"El Salvador?"

They very well could be – but that wasn't what Penhall had meant. "In the mountains," he said gently. "We've been in a plane crash."

"Why can't I move?"

Penhall swallowed hard. "Because you're trapped. I haven't figured a way out to free you yet."

"Michael noticed the bandages Penhall was holding. "Are you hurt?"

Penhall felt a slight bit of relief – it seemed like the first normal thing he'd asked. "Yeah, I hit the back of my head somehow. It won't stop bleeding."

"Did you find a brown bag?" he turned his head and for the first time, seemed to notice the fire. "Is that where you got these things?"

"Yeah."

"Hold the flashlight and let me take a look." Penhall showed him the wound as best he could. "It could use some stitches. I wish I could put some in, but – you'll just have to wrap it up the best you can. Take the scissors and cut it down some, it shouldn't be that bog – and tie it as tight as you can at the back. . ."his voice faded back into nothing for a moment. "I'm sorry, Doug, I couldn't remember what happened."

"Oh, hey, don't worry about it. . .you just take it easy while I think about how I'm going to get you out of this."

"Doug, I'm dying."

These last words were a whisper: Penhall couldn't believe he'd heard right. "What?"

"I can feel that I'm dying."

"Mike, don't say that. . .don't give up, you've got a family waiting for you. . ."

"Have you seen my wife?"

"No – not yet. But it's dark, I'm sure we'll find her in the morning."

"Doug – I know I won't live until the morning."

"Don't keep saying that!"

"I'm so thirsty – do you have any water?"

Again, relief washed over Penhall – a simple request he could fill. He managed to get him to drink a little bit and then he slipped back into unconsciousness. Penhall suspected he was right, that he wouldn't live much longer being pinned underneath all that weight.

It was all downhill from there. His own exhaustion threatening to overtake him, Penhall took care of the fire, knowing they needed it. He still held out hope that someone would find them at any moment, but as the night wore on, even that slim hope faded as the man in front of him – a man not that much older than Penhall himself, someone who, in another time in another place Penhall could've been friends with – vacillated between delirium and pale stillness, sometimes calling for his wife, sometimes his daughter. Sometimes he moaned in unseen pain and sometimes he lay so quiet that Penhall had to put his fingers on the man's neck to see if he still had a pulse.

Finally, when the sky began to lighten in the east and Michael seemed to have fallen into a restless state of sleep, Penhall allowed himself to sit just inside the open wall of the damaged aircraft, facing the fire. He had faced death before – too often, really – so he wasn't necessarily afraid to meet it when it happened.

Except, this was different. Usually, the people whose deaths Penhall had witnessed had either chosen to die or put themselves in a situation where death was a real possibility. This man's dying right in front of Penhall's eyes was nothing like that. There was not an iota of his choice in any of this.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to Hanson.

If he's lying out in the snow right now, he'll never make it.

Maybe he's not lying in the snow. Maybe he's like you, maybe he's o.k.

Maybe he was killed on impact.

Why would you think that, Penhall? What the hell's wrong with you?

He wasn't even sitting in his seat.

So what?

So he didn't have his seatbelt on.

Why does that matter? Mike had his on, and look where it got him.

Jesus, Penhall, what a great way to think. Like the poor guy's already dead.

He's dying. You know it. He knows it.

And if he's dying, who's to say Hanson isn't in the same position?

Because I refuse to believe it.

You're in a pretty tight situation, Penhall. Denial isn't particularly helpful right now.

He had just slipped into a fitful sleep himself when icy bullets of rain began beating against the wreckage and, quite effectively reducing the fire to a smoldering heap. Michael remained unconscious but Penhall knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so once again, flashlight in hand, he began searching the darkened tail section for something – anything – he could use to free the imprisoned doctor who hovered near death, desperate not only to free him but also to keep any thoughts of his best friend alone in the sleet out of his head before they became too much to much for him to bear.

/

Hanson awoke to the first gray light of dawn in the sky.

Well, to say he awoke was pushing it – you had to be asleep in order to wake up and he was pretty sure he hadn't slept at all, except for maybe a couple minutes here and there. Between sitting and shivering up in the front under the tarp that did absolutely nothing but maybe cut the wind a little, and trying to find a position where he wasn't groaning in pain, and being bombarded with thoughts of both Marilinda's and Doug's safety, he didn't see how he could've possibly had a chance to fall asleep. With the first streaks of daybreak came a sudden squall of sleet that burst out of the sky like gunfire and pelted him mercilessly. Hanson gave up, wrapped the useless tarp around himself tighter and made his way to the rear of the wreckage. "Marilinda?" He was unsure what to do – if she was asleep, he didn't want to wake her, but he didn't want to leave without telling her, either.

She was at the opening in an instant. "Thomas, are you all right? What is that noise?"

"It's raining. Well, kind of sleeting, I guess," he answered. "Were you sleeping? Are you warm enough?"

"What's wrong with your voice? You sound hoarse. Come in here for awhile, you must be freezing. I can't sleep anyway – "

"No, I'm all right. I'm just tired – "

"Then that's all the more reason you should come in here, so you don't get sick."

That was the very last thing he was worried about. "There's no room in there, Marilinda. You can see how tight it is – anyway, I'm going to go and try and find – well, hopefully Doug and your husband – but maybe something useful like some real blankets or food or something to make a fire. Do you know what was being transported on this plane? Did you hear what the pilot said or anything?"

"No – but if it's like all the other cargo planes that make this run, it could be anything from food to donated clothing to cocaine – I don't know."

Cocaine! Christ, that'd be all he'd need, to be trapped on some mountain with a plane full of coke and some lunatic pilot somewhere.

"Thomas, you can't go out in this rain – you'll be soaked in a minute."

"Yes, I can – see? I've got the perfect raingear." He pulled the brown plastic around his head. "And don't be jealous of how great looking it is, either."

Marilinda put her head down and smiled. "Thomas, you look – well, ridiculous," she said. "You look like Little Red Riding Hood with a cape or something."

That she was able to smile at all made him that much more determined to find her husband and Penhall. "I won't be gone long. I don't know how far I'll go – I just want to see where we're at."

He could see that she was fearful of being alone, and he certainly didn't like doing it to her, but he couldn't think of any alternative. He couldn't imagine spending another night here without at least something more adequate in the way of shelter. Not to mention food and water. Plus, if her husband and Penhall were hurt somewhere, he had to get to them.

"Please be careful," she said. "Please don't do anything – risky."

"No, I won't." I can't, he thought. He wasn't even sure how far he'd get with how much trouble his cracked ribs were giving him.

He started out in the direction that he guessed the plane had been coming from, and it took him nearly an hour just to inch his way down the slick, snow-covered rock. The icy rain and the tarp over his head made it difficult for him to see anything, but the plastic did actually keep him fairly dry so he kept it on even though it hampered his progress even further. Twice he slipped, both times managing not to land on his already damaged ribs, but berating himself nonetheless. If he broke anything else now, they were done for. The image of Marilinda waiting alone for him while he lay out here with a broken leg made him slow his pace to a near crawl.

Which was fine, anyway since moving or breathing without pain seemed to be a thing of the past. The slower he went the easier it was – but just barely.

He didn't really know what he was looking for, other than Penhall and Marilinda's husband – but all he saw were pieces of the plane scattered here and there. At one point, the rain let up a little and he stopped and took the plastic from his head, trying to see where he was. He had no idea how far he'd come nor how much further he should go. If he went too much further he could easily lose his way and that'd be as bad as breaking his leg.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a heap of clothing several hundred feet ahead of him. Hanson squinted through the sleet – it almost looked like –

A body.

Hanson stopped. He couldn't be sure, but from where he stood, whoever this was did not appear to be alive. Of course, he couldn't be certain until he got closer, but something about the body's position and his own past encounters with death gave him a fairly good sense of when someone was lying unconscious and when someone was lying there dead.

He couldn't see a face yet.

He forced his unwilling legs to start walking. It's not Doug, he told himself. I know that's not Doug. He had no proof, but he didn't need it. If I thought that was Doug, I couldn't walk over there. Those aren't his clothes. I know it's not him.

And it wasn't.

For a brief moment, Hanson thought it might be Marilinda's husband, he couldn't really remember what he looked like, but as he got closer he could see it was the pilot and that he was dead, lying face-down in the snow, the stiffness of his body indicating he'd been dead for awhile. Hanson hadn't given much thought to what might've happened to the pilot, other than the brief idea that he may have been running cocaine, but now his thoughts began to run wild.

You haven't found Doug because he didn't make it.

You asshole, just because the pilot is dead doesn't mean Doug is.

Just because you haven't found Doug yet doesn't mean he's dead.

Then where the hell is he?

Hanson began searching the dead man's pockets, wincing at the pain in his side. His efforts were rewarded with a pocketknife, a small flashlight and a beat-up matchbook with five precious matches in it. Hanson's numb fingers nearly dropped them into the snow as he shoved them into his own pocket – he could hardly believe it. For the first time in 12 hours he felt the smallest grain of hope. A fire – a fire to warm up by, a fire that someone looking for them might see –

He found some hand-rolled cigarettes, which he left, and the man's wallet, which he debated whether he should remove or leave – finally deciding to leave in case someone needed to identify the man's body.

The last thing he took was the pilot's jacket. It was brown leather and worn in several places but it might be all the covering he would find. He removed it and stuck it under the plastic he was wearing – it was wet but would hopefully dry out, especially if he could get a fire lit. Hanson stood, panting with exhaustion. He wanted to keep walking but he knew he couldn't – if he'd been alone he would've done it in a second , but he'd promised Marilinda he'd be careful, that he'd come back, so he turned and began making his way back toward the plane.

/

For Penhall, the day had been endless. The fire that had been such a source of hope the night before had been effectively doused with the sleet, and Penhall had been unable to find anything warm or even remotely useful in one of his many forays outside the perimeter of the plane. He couldn't stay out long, and he didn't dare go far, not without any kind of warmer clothing, and not without risking his own neck trying to traverse the slick ground, but he couldn't keep himself from at least venturing out and trying to see if he could spot Hanson or Marilinda or the rest of the plane or anything. He couldn't see far with the low cloud cover and the relentless sleet, but he guessed this was the spring season from the buds on the trees and the way some of the ground was showing through the snow pack. It was possible that the rest of the plane had cleared the ridge that spread out before him before crashing – Penhall longed to climb over it, ached to begin walking in that direction but knew it would be foolish to try in these conditions.

Plus, he had Mike to consider.

At first, Penhall had thought the young doctor might've had a recovery of some sort – in the middle of the morning, he was clear and lucid and had called Penhall over to ask a favor.

"Of course," Penhall answered. "Anything."

"I need you to write a letter to Marilinda," he said. His face was colorless, almost like wax. "I'll tell you what to say, but you'll have to write it for me."

Penhall winced, tried to think of the right thing to say. "Are you sure you want to do that just yet? Try not to think like that. Someone could be here to rescue us any minute."

Do you really believe that, Penhall?

"No," Michael said weakly. "I – I really need you to do this. Before it gets – too late. Because once I'm – you're going to have to go and find my wife. And your friend."

Penhall reluctantly gave in, went and found a pen and some papers he could use, in the knapsack he'd found. Again, the image of himself standing at Marta's grave, telling her all the things he'd wanted to say when she was alive, haunted him. Everything was hitting just a little too close to home right now.

The man began to speak, at first haltingly, and then seeming to gain strength as he talk more and more about the love he had shared with his wife, his daughter, the life they'd had together.

"You are everything to me – you always have been. . .I'm not in any pain, and I think it's because I see your face in front of me and it brings me comfort, and peace and joy. . .thank you for laboring beside me these past years, I could not have done any of this without you. . .when you are sad I want you to remember that at least we had 4 years together, made 2 beautiful children, and had more love and happiness in those 4 years than many have in a lifetime. . .I know you will tell Gabriella and the new one how much I loved them, how they meant the world to me. . .Marilinda, someday, if and when you are ready, I want you to feel that you can find someone else to share your life with. . .you are still young, you are such a treasure, you should not be alone the rest of your life. . .Doug is writing this for me, he is a good person, he did what he could to try and get me out but more importantly, he stayed with me. . .I will see you again, you know I will. . .and our babies. . .all my love. . .

God.

Penhall couldn't stand it anymore. There had to be a way out of this. "Maybe I should go off, start walking," he told Michael. "I mean, I don't want to leave you here. I don't. But it might be the only way to have a chance of getting you out of here.'

"Doug," he whispered. "You can go if you feel it's best. But I'm not going to be alive when you get back. I'm a doctor, Doug. I know what happens when a person is in this -- situation. I've seen people who have died from less severe injuries than these. But I understand you want to do something. So, if you feel it's right to go, you should."

Penhall didn't think any of it was right. Why me? Why do I have to be the one making these decisions? Why am I in the position of having to make these kinds of decisions at all?

In the end, Penhall knew he couldn't leave, knew the injured man was right, that he was already dying, it didn't matter if Penhall brought back help in the next few hours even, knew that he wouldn't be able to just leave him here to die alone, not if the promise of help was just some distant dream. This was someone's husband, someone's father, some mother's son – Penhall owed it to him to stay.

As the sleet abated near the end of the afternoon, and the light began fading from the sky, Penhall managed to rekindle the fire. He replaced the bloodied bandage from his head wound and then sat down to wait. He'd never actually watched someone die like this, not over a period of time, but he'd seen enough death to know that certain things happened and he watched as these things happened to the young man he waited with. He appeared pain-free, but his breathing alternated between shallow, ragged gasps and slow wisps that were so soundless that Penhall couldn't tell if he was breathing at all. His last words were so quiet, Penhall could barely hear them: "Doug, if you can't – bring Marilinda the letter – you must try and send it to my daughter –"

Penhall understood exactly what he meant, and though he tried to keep them away, his fears for Hanson returned with a vengeance. "Of course," he said. "Don't give it a second thought. But I'll find her. Her and Hanson. I'm sure of it."

He hoped his words eased the man's mind – Penhall's own confidence was at an all time low. And a few minutes later, when Michael murmured one last "thank you" and slipped away as simply and easily as though falling asleep, Penhall went back out into the coming twilight, his thoughts dancing between Clavo and Hanson and Marta, trying to think how he would ever go on if all three of the most beloved people in his life were suddenly snatched from him.

/

The hike back to the plane took every ounce of Hanson's strength and concentration; the sleet had eased up, but the ground was still slippery and it was becoming increasingly harder to ignore how bad his injuries actually were. After he'd come upon the dead pilot, he'd walked a little further, just to see if there was any chance he could see Penhall or anyone else. The ground sloped steeply downward into a mass of trees – there was no way Hanson would ever make it down there, but he had a feeling those were the trees that had broken the plane's right wing as they'd flown through them. Without thinking, he drew in a breath to yell for Penhall and nearly fainted as the pain from his side exploded within him. He fell to his knees, Doug's name still on his lips and it became clear that he wasn't just messing around with a broken rib, that there was something really wrong with him. He rested and waited until he thought the pain had subsided a little and, feeling a measure of defeat he couldn't keep down, began the endless trek back to the plane.

Marilinda had been quiet when he'd finally returned, almost as though she were distracted. Of course, he knew she'd been hoping he'd find her husband, had been counting on it, and when he'd told her that he'd found the pilot's body he thought maybe that was what it was, what was upsetting her, but the quietness seemed beyond that, and Hanson wondered about it. It wasn't something he could put his finger on, it was just something he could feel. She seemed fine, she acted the same with him, she even managed another smile when he showed her the matches, but something about her had changed, and he wasn't exactly sure, yet, what it was.

And he didn't realize how closely she was observing him as well. "You were more than just "banged up," she said to him as she watched him shake out the pilot's jacket to see how wet it was. "I can tell, you're having a hard time moving. Where did you get hurt?"

"I think I might've cracked a rib," he said as casually as he could. He'd been trying not to show how much difficulty he was having, but that was probably stupid, she was married to a doctor after all, they spent much of their time taking care of sick and injured people.

"Just one?"

"I'm – I'm not sure. I can't tell."

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"Is there anything you can do for it?"

"No. Not really."

"Then don't worry about it." He held the jacket in front of him. "You should put this on. It's leather, it'll be warm. The outside is wet, but the lining is fairly dry."

She stepped back from him. "No, you need it," she said. "I'm not sleeping outside. You have to have it."

He knew she was right, but he still wished she'd take it. "I insist," she said firmly. "If my husband was here, I would say the same thing. It's all right – it's warm where I am at. I can see how cold you are – and if you've broken some ribs, that could be serious. You need to stay warm. So, take the jacket and wear it."

Hanson slipped the jacket on, conscious that she was tracking his every move, catching how he was gasping in pain as he put it on. It wasn't as dry as he'd like, but it was so much better than the brown plastic. "Great," he said. "I'm warmer already."

"Thomas?"

He looked up at her. He meant to ask her why she always called him that, referred to him by his full name when he knew he'd told her to call him "Tom", but the look on her face –the tightness that was etched into it – stopped him.

"Promise if you feel worse you'll say something – all right?"

Feel worse? Someone with busted ribs could feel worse than he already felt? "It's not bad, it just hurts at certain times," he said. That's really what it was – it just hurt like hell.

"But your breathing sounds – like you're having a hard time."

"Sometimes. But only if I'm – not resting." Not entirely true, but she didn't have to know that.

"Then you should rest more."

"Marilinda, I can't really sit around resting, not when I have to try and find things so we can stay alive." His words came out harsher than he intended. "But I'll tell you if I get worse, though I don't know what we'll be able to do, exactly. . ."

"I'll just want to know," she said. "O.k., I won't bother you anymore about it, I know how men are, they don't like to say when they're hurt."

After that she was quiet again. She talked to him, he knew she wasn't angry, he didn't even sense she was sad, but something was happening with her. She mentioned that she'd found some oranges and some pineapple in some crate outside the plane; they talked about water -- which there was plenty of, they just needed to find something to put it in -- and they decided against starting a fire because everything was so wet and they only had five matches. She wanted to try and light one, was again thinking about how cold he was, but he talked her into waiting until they had a better chance of keeping one going.

The sleet stopped completely but was replaced by a thick, low fog that settled over everything like a wet, gray blanket. The sun went down and while the temperature was well above freezing, the damp air and the night sky made it feel much colder. Marilinda came out after awhile, carrying the plastic tarps Hanson had been using. "I dried them as best I could," she told him. "But maybe they will be more useful because you have the jacket now."

"Why do you think the pilot was wearing a leather jacket when we left? It was so hot, remember?"

"Was he wearing it?" Marilinda asked. "Maybe he just had it with him because he knew we would be flying over the mountains."

They began to talk then about all different things, a little about her daughter back home and a little about Jump Street, but mostly about her work in El Salvador, the things she'd seen and done in such a place under such conditions. She reminded him of Judy in many ways, how smart she seemed, how easy she was to talk to, and thinking about Hoffs brought his thoughts back to Penhall, and what he could do to find him.

"Marilinda," he finally said. "I think I know where – Doug and your husband might be – I mean, I can't be positive, but if it's where I think, there's no way we could ever get to them – not with how steep it is and not with you being – pregnant –" in spite of himself, he blushed. "And I don't think I could get down without hurting myself even more. Do you think you're able to walk out of here – try and find some help? I don't know exactly where to go, but I don't know how long we can stay here. I think we have to try and get out on our own."

"Thomas, do you think you can do it?" She was studying him much in the same way she had when they'd been on the plane, not at all afraid to look him right in the eyes, and again he felt that same discomfort.

"Do I really look like I'm in that rough of shape?"

"No. Well – your face is pretty bruised up, but it's not too bad. I just meant will you be able to hike down a mountain with as much pain as you're in?"

"I managed today. It took awhile but I was able to do it."

She smiled. "So you did. I guess you're right – we can't just sit and do nothing." She turned from him and looked out into the fog. "I just hate to – leave without Michael."

"He may be doing exactly what we're thinking of doing – trying to get help right now."

"I know you're right – we can't just sit here. We should at least try to get out. You decide, Thomas, when you want to go and that's when we'll go."

If it were possible, he would've left right then and there, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. He didn't want to wait, but he didn't want to go without at least some preparation. "For sure the next day." Maybe if they waited one more day, Penhall and Marilinda's husband would miraculously show up. They were due for some kind of miracle, weren't they?