**WATTYS 2022 WINNER** Seventeen-year-old Evelyn Werth is on an endless flight from hell. She's the only person onboard Aloha Airways Flight 1333 who's caught in a 28-minute time loop.
During each cycle, four things happen:
1. The Internet goes out...
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Loop 4
I pull my earbuds out of my ears just in time to hear Evelyn, yell from the dozen rows behind me, "Ughhh!" She's up in an instant, and seconds later she flops into the seat next to me.
"That's never happened before," she utters.
I grab the armrests, steadying myself. I'm still dizzy. "The nosedive? Cause I'm pretty certain that's definitely happened before," I breathe out, shocked my mouth still works.
"Sorry folks," the pilot voice interrupts. "We've lost Internet connection. It will hopefully be back up soon. And please remain in your seats, we're approaching a patch of turbulence."
I've been in four of those nosedives so far, and I can still officially say that I am not prepared for it. In fact, I am entirely unprepared for it. And I'm pretty convinced that no matter how many of these awful loops I experience, nothing will ever prepare me the moment a plane tilts forward, and plummets straight to the earth. Terrifying doesn't even begin to describe the utter fear that hatches inside of me. It's the worst moment of my entire life. And I'm being forced to constantly relive it.
I can understand why Evelyn's in therapy. I might have to broker a deal with her to share Dr. Sheryl. We could swap loops, or something. Then I cringe at the thought, as if I'm relegating myself to a future stuck inside these awful cycles.
"No," Evelyn pants, as if she can't catch her breath. She seems more out of sorts this time. "I'm not talking about the nosedive. I mean, I am, but... oh, I almost forgot," Evelyn mutters through gritted teeth. "The pacifier."
"Forget about it. It's no big deal," I reply. "Just let the baby cry."
Evelyn's eyes widen and her mouth opens in shock. "You clearly don't know what you're saying, Rion. You haven't heard that screaming. I'm telling you, it's not just a baby crying. It's borderline demonic. Like walking straight into a full-body migraine. It's where the path to madness begins."
And with that, she's gone.
I exhale, eyeing my bag as it rests at my feet. My mind flashes back on Janelle Fiori's brown bag, and at once I'm reaching over and unzipping it. I search frantically through it, trying to understand what Evelyn found. There's the box of medication, but it doesn't give a clue as to what the medication is for unless you're a pharmacist or a doctor and you know the name of rare cancer drugs, which I'm almost certain Evelyn wouldn't. My wallet is pretty basic, too. Nothing much of interest there.
Then I see the pocket on the side of my bag, and slowly open it, revealing the email I printed from the hospital, detailing my preparation for tomorrow's appointment.
Tomorrow. The word glares out from the letter, as if it's taunting me.
Evelyn saw this piece of paper. I know she's seen it. I can see the sadness in her eyes when she looks at me sometimes. I thought it was because I was also stuck in this awful loop, and maybe there's truth to that, too. But now I know it's more than that.
