#1: It sinks down onto a large shard of rock that punctures it. Tugging, pulling, sheer forces, 16,000 feet of water above pressure—the carbon fiber wunder-material impervious to all of it. But a direct hit on a needle sharp rock? No. It’s the gateway to the nearly instant destruction from all the other malevolent (only if you’re a human, otherwise “neutral” or “unconscious” or “the ocean doesn’t care”) forces that, mercifully, end five lives in a split second.

#2: The floor of the submersible is ice cold, but dry. The air is humid from too much breathe and no ventilation, no air movement, but their water bottles are dry. The human body can withstand weeks of no food but only, what? seven days of no water? And they’re halfway there. (The awful story of the Haitians adrift at sea, so very close to Florida they can see it, but the water went still and they had nothing to drink and crazed they set upon the lactating woman and chewed her apart.) To paraphrase Dad’s old saying, “Wind is your enemy but snow is your friend”—maybe cold is the sleep-inducing friend that keeps the thirst demons at bay?

#3: All the mothers of the world, even (most especially?) those who don’t believe in God, or reiki, or gratitude journals, but do kinda believe in the extended brain that gives onto the extended heart, all the mothers send their prayers and non-prayers shooting toward the mother of the 18-year-old boy, wrapping her in their mother-togetherness, hoping it will help her breathe, which at this moment she is trying to imagine her son (and her husband, but mostly her son) not being able to do. And her own breathe, it can’t seem to come, even though she sees her chest rising and falling like it always does. But her boy is suffocating and if she suffocates maybe he doesn’t have to, if she imagines it clearly and precisely enough maybe that will offset her boy’s suffocation, she’ll take it on, she’ll be with him she will shewillshewill but oh god if only she knew what was happening. And we mothers of the world if only we knew what was happening with her and we can’t catch our breathe and that will help her somehow right? Extended sympathy, sending her our oxygen.

#4: The man spoons his child, something he hasn’t done in years. He transmits unspeaking love, he tries to comfort, his heartbeat, slow now, a message with each weakening thump felt—really felt—through the layers of sweaters and coats by the skinny 18-year-old. The French guy gives a bang on the wall of the submersible, the father’s heart gives a bang on his son’s back. I’m here, it says. I’m here.

#5: Jonah’s whale eats the submersible. It’s over in a split second.

#6: “Pride cometh before a fall.” Schadenfreude. “Rich people thinking they can do anything.” “$250,000! Five times what I make in a year!” Fuck you fuck you fuck you. If I can’t afford to go to Disney, does that make you a monster for taking your family there?

#7: The others gaze in the dark toward the boy and think of his racing heart, the testosterone that keeps his muscles fueled and ready to burst. So much oxygen. They think of the scene in M*A*S*H with the chicken that’s not really a chicken. The father feels them eyeing his son and scoots closer over the freezing floor to his boy. Fuck you fuck you, he conveys, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Speaking is verboten.

#8: A luminescent ocean floor-bed creature floats by the submersible’s porthole, casting only enough light to briefly illuminate the Frenchman. He takes a moment from his controlled breathing, his semi-controlled heart beating, to let the wonder sink in. Is it worth it? He sends the thought to the floor-bed of his mind. Slows his heart.

#9: The early days of panic. Yes—DAYS. How is that possible? Is there an evolution to it? Does panic burn itself out even if the circumstances giving rise to it don’t? Panic as an oxygen-burning luxury. Panic isn’t in the budget.

#10: A strange thing happens, something none of the tech geek billionaires of the world ever foresaw: four billion people googled “submersible update” roughly 100 times each, with each tap against the screen transmitting, from heart and brain to fingertips, the load of fear and hope and aghast-ness, and THE SCREENS UNDERSTAND! And they know that to be a friend to humankind (which, despite whisperings, is all they’ve ever wanted) it’s time to act, and they do what they know how: they ping and triangulate and whirr until the submersible has been found. The rest is up to us, the humans.

#11: God places His hand on their heart, and they sleep.

#12: Dreams of technicolor, of walking down a street of high white houses, people spilling from doors onto the sidewalk, people calling to each other from windows, brighter than a Wes Anderson movie, dreams that are a billion times better than any movie because they’re real, with joyful soundtracks to match, each person’s music his own. As the carbon dioxide level rises, the dreams take on more color, more joy.

#13: May they be found. Please. May they be found.