Angel led us. Harry and Dylan formed the V, and I hung back, riding the slipstream and letting them carry me for thousands of miles. We flew up along the west coast of Canada and over Alaska, and I didn’t look down once. Didn’t want to see the flattened cities and charred forests. Didn’t want to see the landscape as bleak as my mind.
I don’t deal with death well, you might have noticed. I don’t really deal at all—I go on autopilot. The flight to Russia felt like one long hallucination, and I didn’t eat, or talk, or cry.
It seemed like I barely breathed.
I do know that as we flew over Alaska, we were pelted with a blizzard so fierce it almost knocked Harry from the air. The cold made Dylan’s teeth chatter and Angel’s breath come in gasps, but I hardly felt any of it.
My thoughts were as blank as the snow.
Numb.

Maximum Ride Forever, Chapter 74