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It made me feel that I

It made me feel that I had a much higher chance of being rescued, and it warded off any potential predators. I ate a pouch of Sunflower seeds and washed them down with a bottle of spring water. I tossed a few more clothes and suitcases onto the fire and crawled into the remaining pile of clothing to get some sleep. I lay there restless, thinking about the crash, reliving the events over and over. What was that blinding white light? It made the front of the jet ignite in flames. Was it the engines exploding? Would that look like a spotlight? Then my train of thought switched back to the dolphin, did it actually rescue me? At some point, I fell asleep. The following morning, I woke up to the whump-whump-whump-whump sound of a helicopter. My fire was barely burning, frantically I tossed clothes on it and anything flammable I could get my hands on, then I picked up my rescue flag and waved it high over my head. The helicopter came into sight and passed me, my heart sank, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “HELP, PLEASE HELP ME!” a moment later the helicopter circled back making two passes over me, I knew I was spotted; it was the best feeling ever. I was going home.

THREE I MAKE THE NEWS A glance around told me I was in a hospital, but I had no memory of arriving and no clue what hospital I would be at. The last thing that I could remember was getting loaded into a rescue chopper, on top of a gurney. If this was not a hospital could I be dead, was that a possibility? Leaning forward sent my pain receptors into overload. To say I hurt everywhere would be a gross understatement, but this helped reassure me that I was still alive. So when I complained to the first person in hospital dress I saw, I was relieved when they flipped some gadget attached to my arm. And a blessed relief replaced the pain. A half hour or so later the pain had diminished, but I still had no idea how long I had been here, when I got here, or even what day it was. My distress was relieved so I asked the nurse who had arrived to check my monitors, “Where am I?” She came close enough for me to read her nametag, but it was blurry. I thought it read Angel. As I tried to discern it through my drug-induced haze, I said, “Angel? Your name is Angel? Am I in heaven?” “No, Davis. You’re in the ER at Mercy Hospital.” “Mercy…? Where…?” I said. “Mercy Hospital, Holbrook, Long Island.” “Long…?” “Long Island, New York.” She said. “But I was on my way to Paris with my parents…” “Hush up now. The doctor will be along in a while to answer all your questions.” About an hour or so later a gray-haired doctor in a white lab coat stood over me. I didn’t need him for any details because it all came back to me. The details were so vivid; my heart was pumping so fast that I could hear it, as I flashed back. The horror on my parents’ faces, the horrible gut twisting sensation of an aircraft in a fatal dive and then that white light, as blinding as a spotlight followed by flames and the tumult of passengers reeling in pain. When I tried to turn my head to sob in semi-private, I realized that there was a neck brace around my neck and I couldn’t move. This added to my building paranoia. “Hello, Mr. Finch, I’m Dr. Nelson,” he said glimpsing at his chart. “After running a battery of tests, there appears to be nothing wrong with you. In fact, not even a scratch. You are one lucky kid, to survive something like that… I’d say you have someone looking out for you, like a guardian angel!” “So my legs and arms are not broken?” “Not at all, son, they are perfectly fine.” Luck? I didn’t feel so lucky. More like dazed and confused, it felt so real. How could I imagine all

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