What You Think When You Think Your Plane is Going to Crash

I recall the first time I thought I was going to die. I was probably seven or eight and my family was driving in a big blue Astro van down a snowy interstate. My sisters and I were bundled in the back when the van hit a patch of ice and began sliding one way, then violently another, as my father jerked the wheel and let loose a torrent of fragmented obscenities. I threw my Ghostbusters sleeping bag over my head and wailed like a tormented banshee—I’m not sure why that was my chosen way of ent...