“Right here, Leo. Turn her now.” My voice was high-pitched and panicky. “Watch out, you’ll have us on the road.”

He did his best, pulling us close to level at the last moment. It just wasn’t good enough. I saw the ground coming towards me — much too fast — and in the moment before impact I could see so clearly that I could have counted the individual weeds that grew in the plowed furrows. When we hit there was a noise like the end of the world.

In a way, that’s exactly what it was.

Nobody would believe me when I told them that I had not — repeat not — lost consciousness when we hit. They pointed to my injuries as proof that I must have been knocked out. I couldn’t offer my proof for many months. But I was right. The idea that I had hallucinated in post-accident trauma was plausible nonsense.

To make this strictly and absolutely accurate, I actually did black out for maybe a second or two at the moment of impact, but I feel sure it was brief. I came to when the noise of settling metal and bending struts was still going on around me. Although I was in no pain, I couldn’t move a finger — or a toe either. The helicopter had struck almost flat, thanks to Leo’s last-ditch efforts, but fast. I had been thrown forward and to the right, to smash against the side panel and window as the machine jerked to a violent halt on the uneven ground.

It’s hard to say how long I lay there, listening to the creak of twisted metal and wondering what I would do if the wreck caught fire. (Answer: nothing, which was all I could do.) The right side of my head was flat on the metal, and I was looking out of the window at the dark brown earth. From where I lay the perspective was distorted. It seemed that my nose was flat against the steel surface, just as though my head had been sheared in two to the right of my nose, and the left half laid on the cold metal panel.