ON TIPTOE THEN LAUNCH into the air, arms outstretched. I somersault, the wind ruffling my hair and the g-forces tightening my stomach. The sun shimmers off the water. A perfect flying dream if it wasn’t for an obnoxious odour. My nose wrinkles to slow its intake. I awake.

A rush of icy air blasts my face. What? I can’t open my eyes against the pressure until I twist to face upwards. I suck in air and the view of devastation. A slow-motion explosion unfolds above. The wings, tail and nose are separating. The jumbo’s cabin has fragmented and passengers, burning seats, and debris accompany me. A Barbie doll flies close–its fixed smile hellos while a melted hand reaches out.

Synapses calculate that with air resistance fighting gravity, I have three minutes falling six miles, more if I get in a flap. Pushing panic away on the grounds it has no survivable features, I wonder whether to hold my jacket open like a sail. But I must already be at 120 miles per hour terminal velocity so it would rip apart. Or would it? I reach into my pocket and switch on my phone. Is three minutes sufficient to say sorry and how much I love her, or would it be too cruel? I text: LUV U. But there is no service.

The debris slowly spreads. I involuntary revolve and see I am about to overtake thousands of glass slivers. They brush my face, a soft caress. Must be cargo–my shipment of purloined Roman glass. Payback time.

The sea looks no closer. The hurricane in my ears blocks out screaming and explosions. Surreal. I let my phone have its own trajectory; maybe it’ll find a signal en route.

Like being in an isolation chamber. Is three minutes up yet?