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Up to that point we've never flown except with the major airlines. The experience will be a bit new and different for us; different terminal, same-but-different security, and we'll actually get to meet the pilot (just one for this flight). He'll be an affable sort. Big guy--an ox, as it were--maybe 6'2" and 300 pounds with a hearty laugh and a Texan drawl. "Well, you two are a pretty pair," he'll say. I don't particularly care to be called pretty--handsome, or attractive, or drop-dead gorgeous would all work better--but I'll politely accept his compliment with a smile; he's in late middle-age, and he has a sweet delivery. I'll join you in stowing our small bags in the belly of our Cessna 208, looping around the back, and boarding.

I don't know too much about aviation, but I like to obsess over little details, so I'll research the 208 a bit before the trip. From what I could tell, the cruising speed of 214 mph would get us to the ski resort in about three hours. Being in the US, the plane would probably seat eight passengers, with a single small aisle dividing single seats on either side, except in the back, where the seats would be bunched up together to allow for a bit of canoodling. Not too luxurious, but it would be tolerable for a three-hour flight into the mountains (though with my horns the cabin will be extremely tight, and I'll have to watch my movements). My assessments will prove more or less accurate, though you won't be entirely excited about clamoring into the back; you'll have put on a good show for the pilot, but we'll both know you're still mad at me.

Joining us on this flight will be three other passengers--strangers that are going to the same resort. They'll have arrived later than we, which will make you redirect some of your ire their way. We'll say our pleasant hellos but sit apart from them. The pilot will announce his safety spiel; I'll listen attentively, but I'll be the only one. The takeoff will be smooth, the ascent slow and easy, and at some point early on, you'll nod off.

I'll watch with some interest for a little while--it's weird to be able to see the pilot in action. But after a while I'll pull out my phone and play some silly game like sudoku or something.

Maybe two-thirds through the flight I'll start to feel some shaking. Slight, at first, but getting stronger. The pilot will notice it too, and when I catch a glimpse of his face he looks concerned. I notice the plane banking to the right; we're no longer pointing directly at the big mountains, which I can see out the side, but the entire area is foothills and baby-mountains.

My eyes will widen when he calmly announces, "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Tree Cat Six Two. Our engine is malfunctioning. Now flying heading Three-Three-Zero, toward--"

Bang!

The engine!

BANG!

The sound of wind will suddenly swirl around me. I'll blink my eyes and focus ahead. The ox's right arm is hanging limply at his side. I'll turn toward you and see in your eyes the same abject terror I'm feeling. I'll cup your hands in mine and whisper, "I'm sorry," though you won't be able to hear it.

After a few seconds of silence, with the exception of the wind, we'll realize that we're not about to immediately fall out of the sky; we'll feel an iota of hope.

One of the other passengers--a stoat in resplendent ermine form who is the most put-together of our traveling companions--will get up and heroically stumble forward. I notice the scenery out the port window shift as the plane pulls to the left. Please just be gentle, transient yaw, I think to myself.

I'll feel the plane banking slightly, as the ermine puts her hand on the back of the co-pilot's seat. All of us will watch with rapt attention as she pulls the headset off the pilot's head.

Then suddenly the pilot will flop forward, causing the plane to nose sharply down.

The ermine will struggle to pull the ox off to the side. She will succeed, but the effort burns precious seconds and impedes her path to the co-pilot's chair. And we are descending very sharply.

She'll lean over the ox's body and pull on the co-pilot's stick; she doesn't have enough leverage to do more than slow the descent... and inadvertently bank us further left.

We'll have no hope left at that point. We're corkscrewing to the ground. I'll check to confirm our seatbelts are on--confirmed--and grip your forearms while you do the same to me. The mix of fear and longing in your eyes will strike my heart cold. That feeling won't last long.

#

When I open my eyes, we'll both still be buckled in. But the impact will have ejected us dozens of feet from the nearest wreckage, which helpfully includes a tree that somehow will have caught fire. The seat assembly will be stuck in the deep snow at a 45° angle, leaving you half-buried.

I'll scramble to remove my seatbelt, awkwardly falling almost on top of you when it finally disengages, but not before the buckle gives me a swift kiss on the mouth as it retracts. I'll taste a flood of iron on my lips and feel something hard in my mouth. I'll apprehensively spit it out and discover my top central incisors, staining my hand with blood; a quick flick of the tongue confirms the gap, leading me to vainly think that I'll look like a fourth-grader now.

It won't take long for me to snap-to and try to help you. I'll pocket my teeth because... I don't know why. You'll still be unconscious, with your face resting on the soft powder as though it were a pillow. The left half of your body will be mostly buried above the snow and you'll be breathing. I'll frantically dig with my hands, knowing that every second in the snow will sap your waning strength that much more. First, I'll pull off my belt and coil it to make an uncomfortable makeshift pillow, so that your face will at least be up off the snow. Before I set the belt, though, I'll take a second to appreciate how beautiful your white fur is against the landscape all around us. Your whiskers and the tips of your cheek fur are waving lightly in the wind. You love to go against type and profess your hatred of cold, but I love you in winter.

I'll doggie-shovel, then I'll scoop with cupped hands and hurl snow over my shoulder, then I'll kick and punch at the fine powder to compress it away from you, then I'll scream in frustration and repeat. We survived the impact, I'll think. You can't die this way. I won't let you die this way. Come on!

Even though I'll just be wearing a shirt and hoodie, I'll start to sweat from the exertion. It's taking too long, I'll think. I'll decide to try waking you up, first by tapping your muzzle. No dice. I'll shout first near, then into your ear, "Sweetheart! Wake up, honey! Hey!" You'll stir but won't wake up.

Those will have been the first words from my mouth since we crashed--I'll suddenly realize that maybe there are others that survived, and I'll shout into the emptiness, "Hey! This is the goat that was sitting with the arctic fox! If you can hear me say something!" After a bit of waiting, I'll try again, "My wife is stuck in the snow and I'm trying to get her out! Please call out if you..."

Motherfucker--call. I'll check my phone, but after feeling a momentary rush of hope, I'll see that there's no service. I'll throw my phone (lightly) in anger. And I'll become more angry when I see it disappear into the ground even though I only threw it fifteen feet.

I'll get back to digging, deciding that I can also nudge and poke and elbow you as much as necessary to try to stir you awake; you'll need to generate more heat, and I'll really need your help to drag you out to who-even-knows-where.

Finally, I wake you up with a particularly savage elbow to the ribs. "Ow," you'll mutter.

I'll be overcome with emotion, and will plant kisses all over your soft face, even if that means stinging pain where my teeth were and a little bit of pink staining from the residual blood on my lips. You'll weakly bat me away eventually, which will of course have been my intention the whole time. "What do you remember?" I'll ask as I wrap my arm around your waist to support you before unbuckling you. Now that you're awake you might be able to shake your leg free of the snow with a little bit of help.

You'll blink slowly. "We were on the plane and the engine exploded... we were about to crash." I'll nod a confirmation. "We crashed?" I'll nod again. "I'm so cold..." your eyes will start to close. In panic, I'll slap you across the muzzle hard. You yelp and growl, "What the hell!"

"You can't sleep now." Finally the partially-frozen buckle will release, withdrawing much more slowly up your body than mine did for me. I'll slowly ease you down until your free foot makes contact with the same relatively-solid snowpack that I've created. "Do you think you can shake your other leg free?"

You'll shake your head, "I can't even feel my leg," you'll say with some alarm. I'll be a bit alarmed too.

In a spasm of worry, I'll try to tug you free of the bank. Successfully. "Well, now I feel dumb. This snow is really light, huh?"

"Good thing our lives don't depend on your intelligence," you'll say snarkily. And then you'll wrap your good arm around me and give me an affectionate lick on the nose, letting me know you only half-mean it.

"Let's see if we can find shelter in the fuselage--or a tree or something," I'll say, dampening our moods a bit with the reality that we'll probably find some bodies back there. Hopefully the blazing tree will signal rescuers quickly.

I'll sidle towards the fire and the wreckage that we can discern, half-pulling you with me. Our progress will be slow, but you won't falter, and eventually we'll enter the copse that marks our plane's final destination.

We'll spot a single, upended chair sitting alone behind a couple of ugly pines. I'll bring you over and use the last of my adrenaline to flip it so you can rest relatively safely.

You'll sit down but eye me warily. "You're not going to murder me later and take the chair, are you?"

"Only if I can't find some blankets. Then I might use you as a tauntaun."