Above the Sky
Tyrone woke to the low, steady hum of engines and the faint pressure of altitude in his ears. For a moment, his body refused to move. His chest ached, and his lungs were sore as if they still remembered water. Panic flared, then relaxed when he realized he could breathe.
Warmth surrounded him. A blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. His body is no longer under the water, hanging on to his life at a signage in a drowning city. But he's in a safe place, clean, warm, and definitely dry.
He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling above him. It's smooth and white, curved just enough to tell him he wasn't in a hospital. The vibration beneath him is constant and controlled.
"Where am I?" Tyrone asked hoarsely, turning his head.
Two familiar faces came into focus. "You're on a private jet," Christa Johnson said.
