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My heart stills when I spot the debris field from the helicopter.

The plane either exploded midair, or when it hit the water. Experts will know.

I want to know too. I want to know every goddamn thing there is to know about how this happened.

As the helicopter descends, I scour the ocean for any sign of life.

I watch in disbelief, as the surface is spotlighted and the divers are lowered into the icy, cavernous hole that is the Atlantic.

Reluctantly, anger leaves my soul, making room for a staggering grief, moving at warp speed as it takes up every corner, banging against the periphery and testing my humanity beyond reason.

I’m cold and numb, as I comb the violent sea for any hope.

“You’re not more powerful than I,” she taunts, the evidence of her might bobbing on the surface.

Seat cushions.

A suitcase.

Flotation devices.

Scraps of metal that made up the plane.

And thousands of objects I can’t identify from this distance.

But not a single sign of life.