My heart is like an open highway

Like Frankie said

I did it my way

I just want to live while I'm alive

It's my life

- Bon Jovi (It's My Life, 2000)

Tick-tick-tick.

Ronnie Anne Loud glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was too far away, and the noise too great, for her to hear it, but she imagined she did anyway, a steady, ominous sound like the clicking of old bones.

It was 7:30 and she sat in a hard, uncomfortable plastic chair that bit into her butt and exacerbated her back pain. Lincoln sat in a wheelchair across from her, his metal breathing tank clipped to one arm and the mask strapped to his face. He took slow, even breaths, and his hands trembled slightly in his lap. A plaid blanket covered his knees and Ronnie Anne stared dazedly at it, absently tracing the blue zigzag pattern so she wouldn't have to look at his withered face. Was this hell? She couldn't even gaze upon the man she loved! Every time she did, his wrinkles, sunken cheeks, and rheumy eyes sent icy daggers into her heart. Deep lines radiated from the corners of his mouth and brown splotches dotted his sallow skin, lending him the appearance of an overripe banana.

That image made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, and she was really close to doing it. Keeping herself together got harder every day, and tight panic was beginning to claw at her chest. Each day, each minute, Lincoln went downhill just a little more, and everywhere they turned, the treatments didn't work...just like Patel predicted. They had been flying desperately around the country since the second, first to Miami, then to Chicago, then, finally, to Boston; they saw the best specialists in the country and none of them could help him...none could save her husband.

As Lincoln's life drained from his emaciated body, Ronnie Anne's desperation grew until she shook with it like a kettle on a hot stove. She begged God every night for just a few months more, just a few, that's all. She couldn't lose Lincoln, not yet, not when the sun was still shining and the weather warm, not when she still loved him with every fiber of her being, not when there was still so many hugs, kisses, and cuddles left undone. She promised God the moon and the stars and pleaded with every single doctor they saw, but he continued to deteriorate right before her eyes, slipping faster and faster, dying a little with every passing hour, getting farther and farther away from her. She tried to hold on tight, but she was losing her grip.

She took a deep breath and hugged herself against the chill, but could not get warm. When her mother died almost forty years ago, she implored her to never depend on a man the way she had with Dad...but she did. In fact, by the time she read that letter, it was too late; she'd given her heart and soul to Lincoln Loud and she couldn't go back even if she wanted to. She never did, though; she had his daughter, she made his home, she stood with him when he needed her, and together, they built a perfect life. She was as bound to him as one can be to another, their spirits entwined and infused, their hearts beating the same time. She sometimes wondered if her love for him was normal or if she was co-dependent. Maybe she was. She had no reason to be, she had as good a childhood as you can have as a poor spic in a small town in the fifites; perhaps she was wired wrong.

Did it matter, though? Did it really?

To her it didn't. Lincoln was the love of her life, the father of her daughter, and the center of her heart. He meant so much to her...and he was being gradually taken away, drawn into the grave by a fucking disease that should have been eradicated years ago. All this money our government has, and where do they put it? The military, that's where. The rich. The politicians. They tax and tax and tax, then piss it all away, leaving cancer and AIDS to kill thousands of people every year. It was 2001, cancer shouldn't even be a thing anymore!

Her chest constricted with anguish and she drew a deep breath through flaring nostrils. Warm, slimy tears welled in her eyes, and she brushed them away.

This was it, their last chance. A doctor in L.A. claimed to have made a breakthrough and Ronnie Anne's hopes, dreams, and everything else rested on his work. If he couldn't give Lincoln extra time, no one could.

Last night, while Lincoln slept, she called everyone in the family from Lana to Lynn Jr. and asked them to come out on the 21st. Whether the doctor in L.A. could prolong Lincoln's life or not, they were finally going to tell everyone that he was dying. They already told Lori - she knew something serious was going on after the heart attack and hounded them for days. Ronnie Anne finally confessed, and the older woman's face went completely white. With her nerves frayed the way they were, seeing her shock was too much and Ronnie Anne broke down in tears. She wasn't looking forward to seeing the same thing from fifteen other people, but it had to be done.

There wasn't much time.

Tick-tick-tick.

A rush of people passed the waiting room, some carrying suitcases and the others hefting carry-ons. A woman held a little girl's hand and even though they looked nothing like her and Alex, Ronnie Anne was reminded of them anyway. Across the corridor, a man stood at a bank of payphones and talked into one, and a screen mounted overhead listed arrival and departure times.

Lincoln lifted the mask, hand tremoring, and let out a hacking cough. "These goddamn things are always late."

"It's not late," Ronnie Anne replied, "it takes off at eight."

"What time is it now?"

She looked up at the clock. Tick-tick-tick. "7:40."

He nodded, looked like he wanted to say something more, then slipped the mas back over his mouth. A voice came over the loudspeaker and Ronnie Anne paused to listen, but it wasn't their flight. She would miss this most of all, just sitting with him. Not sex, not kissing, not even cuddling, just overall having him. He wasn't even dead yet, but her chest already ached with loss, like a thousand knives twisting left and right, tearing her insides to shreds. How would it be when he was actually gone? How could she bear to look down at him in his casket? Cold, white, cheeks unnaturally red with mortician's rouge, empty. That bothered her most of all, everything she loved, his wit, compassion, all gone, nothing left behind but a husk. She had so much reason to stay behind, but God help her, she didn't know if she could go on without him.

Fresh tears blurred her vision and she wiped them away. The terminal was filling up quickly now, telling her a plane or two had just landed. A man in a business suit rushed by talking on his cellphone, and a morbidly obese woman in a motorized scooter buzzed to one of the vending machines flanking the far wall. Lincoln stared over her shoulder at the window overlooking the tarmac, and when their eyes met, Ronnie Anne's lips quivered. He pulled down the mask and offered a wan smile that was beautiful despite its pallor. "Cheer up," he said, "I hear L.A.'s nice this time of year."

A tear slid down her cheek and she nodded quickly. "I can't wait to hit the beach." Her voice cracked and another tear joined the first.

He leaned over and took her hand. His palm was dry and clammy, just as it would be when...she forced that thought away and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. What would her mother think of her? Would she be disappointed? Would she be understanding? You can't depend on some men, but some men you can. Would she accept that logic, or would she just sadly shake her head?

"We can ride the Ferris wheel," he said, "the one on that pier. I'm pretty sure they'll let me on."

She smiled bravely, and Lincoln's washed out eyes twinkled. "That's my girl," he grinned.

A half laugh, half sob burst from her throat and she kissed his hand. "I love you," she said earnestly.

"I love you too," he replied.

The PA came to life again, a clear voice calling from speakers in the ceiling. "United Airlines Flight 175 to Los Angeles now boarding at Gate 19."

"That's us," Ronnie Anne said. She got to her feet and slung her purse over her shoulder. They didn't have carry ons; handling Lincoln's wheelchair by herself was difficult enough without extra baggage. She got behind, grabbed the handholds, and spun him around. They fell in behind a black family and made their way toward their gate. A long window stretched along the wall to their right, and Lincoln stared out it as they passed, watching the planes land and take off.

The corridor opened up ahead, and a blonde stewardess stood next to the entrance to the jet bridge connecting the plane to the terminal, her red lips pulled back in a big, practiced smile. She nodded politely to everyone boarding and welcomed them to United Airlines. Ronnie Anne called ahead to let them know that Lincoln used a wheelchair and arranged to have someone fold and stow it in the back of the plane. She looked around and spotted a special asie sized wheelchair standing to one side. It was smaller and able to navigate the narrow corridors of an aircraft.

When they reached the jetbridge, Ronnie Anne moved to the side so as not to impede the flow of traffic, bent over, and locked the wheels. She grabbed the other one, wheeled it over, and stopped in front of Lincoln. "Would you like any help, ma'am?" the stewardess asked.

"No, thank you," Ronnie Anne said. She took the blanket from Lincoln's lap, draped it over her forearm, and held out her hand. He took it, planted his feet on the floor, and stood. He could walk, stand, sit, and lay on his own, he just couldn't go long distances without becoming weak, winded, and tight-chested.

Turning stiffly, he aligned his butt with the seat and sat. She got his oxygen tank, checked the air level, and, finding it satisfactory, clipped it to the side. People had been streaming by this entire time, none turning to look at them or even seeming to know they were there:. A couple with a little girl about two between and holding their hands, a Hispanic woman with white hair, an Arabic man in a blue dress shirt tucked into tan pants, a gym bag over his shoulder, a teenager with his pants sagging. Ronnie Anne unlocked the wheels and turned the chair to face the jetbridge. She nodded to theirs, sitting empty and forlorn. "Someone's going to put that on, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," the stewardess said with a deep nod, "I'll see to it myself."

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said.

The stewardess nodded again, her smile too big, too creepy, like a cannibal clown. "Thank you for flying United Airlines."

Making sure Lincoln's oxygen tank was secure, Ronnie Anne pushed him onto the jetbridge, struggling a little to get the wheels over the gap. Dim, overhead lights lined the tunnel and tiny portholes gave a view of the runway, where men in orange vests and blue baseball caps loaded luggage onto the plane. Its big rear end rose high above the tarmac like the prow of a ship at sail and clouds dotted the crystal clear September sky. The weather had been beautiful in Boston and was sure to be even better in Los Angeles, but it only depressed her even more. How could she enjoy the sun when her sun was going dark?

Their seats were C2 and C3 on the left side. They moved slowly down the aisle, stopping to wait for people to put their carry-ons in the overhead compartments, then sat, Lincoln by the window and Ronnie Anne by the aisle. A stewardess took the wheelchair, and Ronnie Anne nodded her thanks. Lincoln sat the tank between his knees and shifted to get comfortable. He yanked the mask down and looked at her. "We shoulda sprung for first class. The seats are better up there."

"They're the same size, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said listlessly. "It's the extra leg room that makes it first class."

Down the row and across, a little girl about six sat next to a bald man with a neck as thick as a pack of hotdogs. She kicked her legs jauntily back and forth and hummed an airy tune. A coloring book sat in her lap; Ronnie Anne could just make out Barbie's smiling face, her lips pink and everything else uncolored.

Lincoln humphed. "Excuse the hell out of me." Ronnie Anne shot him a look that tried to be playful but came off sullen, and grinning, he pulled his mask back on.

Everyone was settled in their seats now and a stewardess walked down the aisle glancing left and right to make sure people were putting their seatbelts on. As if on cue, the light above the curtain leading to first class winked on with a ding. PLEASE FASTEN SEATBELTS. Ronnie Anne helped Lincoln get his on, then pulled her own over her lap. Directly across from her, two Arbabic men sat together and talked lowly, one making firm and secret gestures with his hand. The one closest to her was about twenty with messy black hair. He stared straight ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing and disquiet seething in his eyes. He looked scared.

Must be a first time flyer.

The second man, older and more grizzled, put his hand on the first's shoulder and said something. The first nodded jerkily and took a deep breath.

Lincoln stared out the window at the ground crew below, and Ronnie Anne watched him, her eyes flicking up and down his skeletal arm. His shirt, which fit fine just a month ago, hung slack on his frame, and beneath it, he resembled an Etheopian; his ribs stuck prominently out and his stomach was beginning to fold in on itself. He looked like a skeleton.

Like he was already dead.

Ronnie Anne's throat tightened and her chest throbbed sickly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice spoke over the loudspeaker, bringing the low, idle murmur to a halt, "this is your captain speaking. On behalf of the crew, I'd like to welcome you to United Airlines Flight 175 to Los Angeles. We should touch down at 1pm western standard time, depending on the headwind. We are about to begin take off so if you could please buckle your safety harnesses and remain seated until further notice. Again, thank you for flying United and have a wonderful day."

Ahead, the little girl proudly held the coloring book up, and the bald man chuckled. The look of love on his face reminded her of Lincoln when Alex and Jessy were small, and a blade twisted in her heart.

Shortly, the stewardesses all disappeared and the plane drew away from the jetbridge, the whine of its big engines loud even here in the cabin. Ronnie Anne took Lincoln's hand in hers and he weaved their fingers together. Did she already say she would miss holding his hand? She would. Greatly. It was such a small, simple act, but it made her feel complete in a way that nothing else could, save for sex, for in that instant, she and Lincoln were totally and entirely one, one flesh, one sigh, one heart, and one soul. Without him, she was broken, divided, a body missing its other half.

And when a body is parted, it dies.

The plane taxied down the runway, gaining speed as it approached the end. It left the ground, soared over a cyclone fence, and rapidly gained altitude. Across the aisle, the younger of the two Arab men dug his nails into the arms of his seat and squeezed his eyes closed, his face turning the color of spoiled milk. The older one favored him with a disgusted sidelong glance and shook his head in disappointment.

Soon, the plane evened out, and the captain came back on. "We've just hit our cruising altitude of 11,000 feet. I've turned off the seat-belt light, which means you are now free to move about the cabin. However, for your own safety, please fasten your belts when you are seated, in case we encounter any unexpected turbulence."

Lincoln turned away from the window, leaned back against the headrest, and let his eyes fall closed. Travelling so much took a lot out of him, but he didn't complain, and though she hated what it did to him, she couldn't bring herself to admit defeat. Yeah, he was dying but...but what if there was something out there? What if she gave up right before they made a breakthrough? So close...only to turn around.

They couldn't keep doing this forever, though. If L.A. didn't pan out, she would have no choice but to back down. He was fading quick and in a couple weeks, maybe even before the month was out, he wouldn't be in any condition to travel. Urgency smoldered in her chest, and she willed the plane to fly faster. Come on, come on, time's wasting, tick-tick-tick.

She glanced at Lincoln. The mask hung around his neck and his mouth hung open. His chest gently rose and fell, and he looked so old, so sick…

A sob built up in Ronnie Anne's throat and she choked it back and turned away, moments from breaking down, seconds from surrendering and accepting the unacceptable. She propped her elbow on the arm of the seat, pressed her hand to the side of her head in a gesture of despair, and took a series of deep, evenly spaced breaths. Ahead, the little girl went on humming and kicking legs back and forth, back and forth. She held her coloring book up. "Look, Daddy, I colored Barbie's nose purple." Her father, talking into his cellphone, spared her a cursory glance. She shook the book to get his attention, and he held up his hand. "Wait a minute." She sagged in disappointment and sullenly slapped the book back onto her lap.

Next door, the younger man sucked deep gulps of air and nodded resolutely to himself. The older man leaned in and whispered into his ear like a shoulder-dwelling devil, nodding almost inevitably toward the front of the plane. A stewardess came down the aisle, and they both looked up at her, the older man with something like disdain and the younger with castigation, as though he were a boy who'd been caught doing something wrong. Ronnie Anne tangled her fingers in her hair and blinked back miserable tears. It would be alright, she told herself, they'd find what they were looking for in L.A. A few more weeks, maybe a month, strangling as much time from the throat of life as they could, scrounging for change like two broke stoners who just wanted to hit up the McDonald's drive-thru.

That made her want to laugh, but if she did, the dam would burst and she would start to cry.

With one last breath, the younger man pushed himself up and stepped into the aisle, his footing shaky and unsure. The older man got up and brushed past him, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Together, they disappeared through the curtain between the classes; it fluttered as it fell back into place, and Ronnie Anne caught a quick flash of the people in first, all packed into their seats just like the ones in business.

Another stewardess came by, a tall redhead in her late twenties or early thirties that was neither ugly or pretty, just...plain. Heh. No pun intended. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "No, thank you." She glanced at Lincoln to see if he wanted anything, but he was still out, soft snores drifting from his open mouth.

The stewardess went down the line and knelt next to the little girl. "Would you like a juice box, honey?"

"Yes, please," the little girl piped.

Was there even any point in trying? What awaited them in L.A.? Patel said none of the experimental treatments worked, and so far he was right. What made this time any different? They'd stay in a hotel, spend hours in a glinting-glass highrise masquerading as a doctor's office only to be told that whoops, our miracle prosecure isn't working, and then slink away with no results save for astronomical medical bills. It happened in Miami, it happened in Chicago, it happened in Boston, and it was going to happen in Los Angeles too.

Maybe when they got there, they should just fly home. They had so little time left and they were wasting it.

She was wasting it.

A shout from the other side of the curtain brought her out of her reprieve. Suddenly, a multitude of low, chattering voices filled the cabin, and Ronnie Anne sat up, brow knitting in confusion. Two stewardesses came through, the redhead and a blonde. The redhead was bent slightly forward and pressing her hand to her stomach, and the other with her hand on the first's back. Her face was drawn, pale, and worried. The bald man fell silent and looked at them and an old woman three rows up gasped.

That's when she saw it.

Rich, red blood oozed through the first stewardess's fingers.

They hurried past, and everyone turned to look at them, suddenly talking over each other.

Was something wrong?

Ronnie Anne twisted around, but they were gone, vanished into a wide, crew-only area at the back of the plane where food was presumably prepared and drinks and bags of peanuts kept. Drops of blood trailed along the carpet, marking their path, and Ronnie Anne's stomach turned.

Several rows up, a black man got to his feet just as another stewardess came through the curtain. Like the previous two, her face was white and haggard. "What's going on?" someone asked.

Ignoring them, she held up her hands in placation. "Everyone, everyone...please remain calm."

The bald man said something into his phone, never taking his eye from the stewardess, and hung up. His daughter glanced anxiously between her and him, eyes filled with alarm. "What's happening?" he called.

Past the curtain, someone cried out, and the stewardess stiffened. She opened her mouth, but cut off when a man in a business suit stumbled through the curtain as if shoved.

Ronnie Anne whipped around and shook Lincoln. He came awake with a snort and a start, his eyes muddled with bewilderment. "Lincoln, something's happening." There was a fearful hitch in her voice that she barely noticed.

Blinking the sleep away, Lincoln pushed himself up to a sitting position and winced at the stiffness in his back. "What?" he asked.

More people from first class had come through the curtain; they stood in a group, some talking into cell phones and others looking stricken. The stewardess was gone and a din of talking choked the stale, pressurized air. People were getting cautiously up from their seats but making no move to go forward and investigate.

"I don't know," Ronnie Anne said. A thousand terrible images raced through her mind, but none of them made sense. There couldn't have been an explosion - if there was, they'd all be dead right now.

Lincoln craned his neck to see over the seat in front of him, and Ronnie Anne leaned out into the aisle. Without warning, an arm popped through the curtains like a jack-in-the-box, brown hand clutching something that glinted in the morning light, gesturing wildly. Ronnie Anne's heart stopped when she saw what it was.

A box cutter.

And it was slick with blood.

A stewardess, this one older with black hair, staggered through with a cry and nearly lost her footing. Lincoln tensed and his forehead furrowed deeply.

The stewardess stood up straight and took a deep, harangued breath. "E-Everyone," she said, voice breaking, "p-please remain calm, we're...w-we're being hijacked."

Someone gasped, someone else blurted, "Oh, my God," and Ronnie Anne's stomach knotted with dread. Hijacked?

Suddenly, as if to corroborate her claim, the plane banked hard to the left; overhead compartments popped open, spilling bags onto the floor and people's heads; Lincoln fell against the window; the belt pulled tight across Ronnie Anne's lap; and the people by the curtain were thrown rudely to the floor. A duffle bag hit Ronnie Anne's shoulder and bounced off, someone screamed, and the little girl let out a heart-piercing squeal. The plane evened out, and Lincoln rubbed his shoulder, a flash of pain rippling across his face. Moans, sobs, and excited babbling permeated the air.

Lincoln rolled his shoulder, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he panted. "What the fuck's going on up there?"

"She said we're being hijacked," she said in a rush.

Three men helped the stewardess to her feet and she hustled to the back of the plane, ignoring a barrage of questions. Ronnie Anne's heart slammed like a drum, so loud in her ears that it drowned everything else out, and her breathing changed, becoming ragged and shallow. Every news story about skyjackers came back to her like a ton of cement: PLO, D.B. Cooper, planes sitting on runways while terrorists killed everybody on board one-by-one, criminals desperate to get to Cuba.

The plane banked hard left again, and everyone screamed. Ronnie Anne clutched the arm of her seat for dear life, deaf to the pitiful whimpers emanating from her own throat. Slowly, ponderously, the plane turned off course; its engines whined with strain, the fuselage shook as though it were going to explode into a million pieces, and the little girl wailed like a small, frightened cat.

When it straightened out again, bags, overturned carts, paper, and other debris littered the floor. People wept, prayed, and whipped out their cellphones to call the police, the army, someone, anyone. "Son of a bitch," Lincoln hissed and rubbed his shoulder.

"What do we do?" Ronnie Anne asked. She realized she was clutching the front of her dress like a scandalized old woman and let her hand drop to her lap.

Lincoln thought for a moment, the cogs and wheels in his mind turning. It was clear from the hard light in his eyes that he wanted to do something. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and exhaled through his nose. "Whatever they say," he finally said. "Keep your head low and don't try anything stupid." He spoke with the pained reluctance of a dog on the end of a chain. A year ago, he might very well have attempted to fight back, but now, he was too weak. "Do we know who it is?"

She thought back to the two Arab men in the row across the aisle, neither of whom had returned, and then of the brown hand jutting through the curtain. "Arabs," she said at length.

"Arafat," Lincoln said, "probably him and his people. Fucking terrorists, all of them."

"What do they want?" She knew who Yassair Arafat was and what he stood for, but in the heat of the moment, her mind blanked.

Lincoln shifted his weight and grimaced. Outside the window, blue sky above and white cloud cover below stretched into forever. "Probably for us to let a bunch of their people out of prison," he said, "or to stop supporting Israel. Who knows? They're lunatics."

That wasn't very comforting.

She took a deep breath, and turned when Lincoln took her hand. "We'll be fine," he said, little conviction in his voice, "just… here." He grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of him and pulled himself up. "Switch me seats."

"What?"

He jerked his chin at his seat. "Switch."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Though bleached with illness, his tone was firm, and that drove home the severity of their situation. Half-standing, she slid into his seat and he sat in hers. She didn't understand the significance of changing seats, then it hit her: He wanted to be on the outside so if one of the hijackers came looking for victims, they'd take him instead of her.

She started to protest, but the plane tilted to the left again, and her heart leapt into her throat. Someone screamed, and she was only vaguely aware that it was her. Lincoln took her hand and squeezed, and she squeezed back, crushing his in terror. The roar of the engines was deafening, filling the world like judgement day, and the frame jerked, sputtered, and trembled. She closed her eyes and bore down on her teeth, unclenching them only when the plane was straight ahead.

"What are they doing?" she cried, not caring that she sounded like a petrified child.

"I don't know," Lincoln said grimly. He stared directly ahead, where the people from first class huddled on the floor.

A few minutes later, they got their answer. A fat, middle aged woman in glasses jumped up from a middle row, cellphone pressed to her ear. "THEY'RE GONNA CRASH US!" she shrieked. "THEY'RE GONNA CRASH US!"

The plane jolted downward, losing altitude, and Ronnie Anne's heart dropped with it. An animated murmur ran through the cab, and Ronnie Anne's throat constricted. Crash us? What did that mean? She didn't sound like she was worried the hijackers might accidentally wreck them, she sounded like she knew. But that was impossible.

Again, the plane dropped, and a wave of screams went through the passengers. It banked to the left again, the world canting, standing impossible. The cloud cover broke, and Ronnie Anne glanced out the window. A city skyline resolved through the mist, becoming clearer like shapes emerging from dense fog. She squinted, and the final wisps of clouds evaporated. Far ahead and below, wedged between two rivers and a vast expanse of sun dappled blue, a great landmass tapered off, becoming narrower the further south it went. Bridges connected the shores and gray urban sprawl crowded the island.

After a moment, she recognized it.

New York City.

The hijackers had taken them at least a hundred miles off course.

Something caught her attention, and her chest crushed. On one side of Manhattan, two tall, majestic towers reached unto heaven, rising higher than anything else around them, even the other skyscrapers. Thick black smoke billowed from one of them, almost dead center, and curled over the roof before being blown away on the September wind.

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth to speak, but a wheeze came out instead. A few rows up, someone screamed, and everyone on the left side of the plane pressed against the windows. "Oh, my God!" someone yelled "Holy shit!" another spat.

Lincoln leaned over to see, and went rigid when he glimpsed the smoke. "Shit," he muttered.

The plane dropped again, jostling the passengers, and Ronnie Anne clutched the arms of the seat in a white knuckled death grip, chest heaving. They were dropping steadily now, the ground coming closer; the shadow of the plane flickered across fields, highways, bridges, and clusters of buildings. Ronnie Anne stared fixedly at the approaching towers, paralized, unable to move, think, or even breathe. The outskirts of the city proper lay ahead, Queens to the east, Brooklyn and Staten Island in the south. Smoke continued pouring from the wounded titan, and as they came closer, Ronnie Anne imagined she could see orangeish flashes of fire in the conflagration.

They weren't really going to hit the building...were they? Smashing metal, twisted steel, flames, impact...she began to hyperventilate, the edges of her vision going gray and white, spine tingling violently.

When Lincoln closed his hand on hers, she jumped. He stared at her with a strained expression, his face dark and blurred by her tears, his throat working and his nostrils flaring as he fought to keep his breathing under control. She looked out the window again; they soared above the northernmost reaches of Manhattan; brick housing projects clustered beneath raised overpasses and Central Park stood in the distance.

They were going to die.

They were really going to die.

"Thank you," Lincoln said soberly. His lips quivered and tears dribbled down his hollow cheeks. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Thank you for marrying me."

In the south, the towers waited. Ronnie Anne looked away from them and at her husband's face, trying frantically to tune everything else out; the crying, the screaming, the rapidly increasing turbulence, the loud, hateful roar of the engines. She gazed deep into his eyes, just as beautiful now as they were forty years ago, and squeezed his hand. "I had no choice," she said through her tears, "I love you."

"You made my life perfect," he said, "I wouldn't change a single thing."

Was this it? Was this really the end? Visions of Alex, Jessy, Blake, Zoe, and Allison flashed before her eyes, and her heart pounded faster as if trying to escape its impending death.

Ahead, the little girl clung to her father, her face buried in the crook of his neck and his arms wrapped tightly around her, as though he could shield her from what was about to come. "Daddy, I'm scared."

"It's okay, baby," he trembled, "it's okay, I got you."

"I wouldn't either," Ronnie Anne said, "you are my life."

The plane roared over the rooftops of Lower Manhattan, the howl of its engines echoing along the streets like the cry of an avenging angel. A gray, unbroken wall filled the world, slotted windows looking into offices, kitchens, and conference rooms. Ronnie Anne threw her arms around Lincoln and held him close, and he held her back. "I love you," she whispered, and no truer or more earnest words had ever been spoken.

"I love you too" he said.

"Goodbye."

"Only for a little while," he said."Only for a little while."

Ronnie Anne closed her eyes, and in the seconds before United Airlines 175 plunged into the South Tower of the World Trade Center, every memory she had ever made with Lincoln and the family they shared came over her like a gentle breath of spring wind.

Their life was perfect, and she was endlessly grateful for -

Shaky footage shot from the POV of a helicopter rolled on CNN, the word LIVE crammed in the bottom right corner. Below that was a nifty, though hastily made graphic that would have made Lincoln Loud roll his eyes:

BREAKING NEWS

WORLD TRADE CENTER DISASTER.

The North Tower belched sooty smoke into the crystal blue sky above Manhattan. The South Tower stood in the background as if trying to get in on the shot (look at me, I'm here too!). A female anchor spoke to an FDNY fire chief by phone, the latter's voice garbled. "...into the North Tower. There was a big explosion and...and just pandemonium."

"What's it look like on the ground?" a male anchor asked.

"Uh, people are running and the streets around the towers are blocked."

The camera panned back just as a second plane streaked toward the South Tower. It disappeared behind the North Tower, and a moment later, a ball of flames exploded outward.

Shocked silence.

"W-Was that the second tower?" the woman asked haltingly.

"It looks like it," the man replied dazedly. "Uh...it seems that another plane has hit the South Tower."

And as twenty million Americans watched in horror that September morning, the world as we knew it came to an end.

Jessy pushed herself up from the armchair and pressed her hand to the small of her achy back. Six months along, she was already as big now as she was at full term with Allison. Everything was sore, her breasts leaked, and she cringed every time the baby kicked. Neither she nor Mark were very athletic people, but their son was going to be a soccer star, just watch.

She shuffled past the couch where Allison lay motionless on her stomach, face turned toward the TV, where Spongebob played unwatched. Jessy watched the news for most of the day, transfixed by the drama unfolding in New York City, but turned it off after the fiftieth time they showed the towers collapsing. It was so awful and made her sick to her stomach. She was also afraid. Two more planes crashed that day, one in a field in Pennsylvania and one into the Pentagon, and God only knew how many more were out there just waiting to come down.

The last she heard, President Bush was in hiding and thousands were feared dead. The analysts on CNN said it was most likely the work of Osama Bin Laden, a Middle Eastern terrorist whom Jessy had heard of, but only in passing.

She lumbered into the kitchen, intent on making herself a sandwich, but changed course when the cordless phone on the counter rang. She went over, picked it up, and hit TALK.

"Hello?"

A sob filled the line, and Jessy's brow knitted. "Hello?"

"Jess."

That single word, full of sorrow and pain, spoken in her sister's voice knocked her off balance. "Alex? What's wrong?"

Alex didn't reply for a moment, and Jessy's little heart began to race. Something happened to one of the kids. Blake got hit by a car or Zoe was kidnapped by a pedophile.

Finally, Alex found her voice. "That plane that hit the World Trade Center," she said, and her voice caught. She paused, and when she went on, it was in a low, hollow whisper.

"...Mom and Dad were on it."

This is the ending I had planned from, iirc, the very beginning. Every other ending was a fall back just in case I didn't have the creative energy to make it all the way to 2001. I wrote a brief epilogue to close the story out, but I think this is the best place to end it. It might be abrupt, but so is death. We expect it to be this big, dramatic thing, its approach signified by ominous music, or a feeling in the air, something to let us know it's coming. In truth, it happens like that. Snap your fingers. That's death. RITY is a passion project and my first instinct was to wrap it up with a neat little bow, but I've been trying to mimic real life here, and in real life, things rarely end that cleanly.

I won't entirely rule out the possibility of ever revisiting these characters, but it's unlikely.

I want to thank everyone who read this story, whether they made it to the end or not. Those of you who did...you're real troopers, lol, and I really appreciate you sticking it out. I started the first chapter on October 15, 2017 - almost two years and nearly 1.5 million words ago. That's a lot of time and investment on your part, and, just, again, thank you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go finish crying.