Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Congratulations to Sheri P., the winner of the coe stuffed animal. 

If you're looking for a topic for your entry in this year's Write a DearReader Contest, you might write about something that happened while driving. Get all the contest info, including the deadline here.

I had to do an errand first thing this morning--couldn't avoid it and it was going to take me 30 minutes to drive there and then another 30 minutes to drive back home. What a waste of time. I had big plans today and already things were working against me.

But I must've needed a break this morning because on my way, I had to stop for two drawbridges. Two drawbridges!

"Stop Here on the Flashing Red Light"--that's what the sign said. And there really wasn't any other option, because half of the bridge was rising up into the air in front of me. So I put the car in park--it'll be a little while--sat back and took a look around.

People pay money to fly to Florida for heaven sakes and I live here. If this draw bridge opened in front of tourists, they'd be out of their cars taking pictures and feeling they'd hit the jackpot, because the drawbridge only opens when a huge sailboat, with a tall mast, needs to pass through.

Yes indeed, it was a picture perfect day when I took the time to look around and I'm glad I did. A pelican, my favorite bird, had just spotted a fish and "plop," he did a shallow dive into the water. No scaling, or filleting, the big brown bird just threw his head back, gave the main course a little wiggle, down the hatch--"yum, yum," and off he went searching for dessert.

A trail of blue, next to a splash of green, and a few small white caps--the waves are gently splashing up against the shore. Why was I in a hurry?

But now the bells are sounding and the bridge is lowering back into place, the signal arm lifts, but nobody seems in a hurry to hit the road. No one's inching up in their car, even though we know the green light is coming. Nope, we just all sit a little bit longer. 

The goofy pelican has spotted another fish. He's circling and picking up speed, getting ready for the dive...and he's done it again! If only I could catch 'em like he does.

Time to get moving...

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends. 

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Hollow Bones: A Novel by Jodi Picoult. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

1

September 2026

An unexpected wind picks up from the north and the wall of fire becomes a living thing, a dragon roaring toward the first responders who try to tame it. I'm frozen in place, watching this hellscape. These thirty-mile-per-hour gusts have seemingly arrived out of, well, thin air.

The flames lick to the sky and then swoop back against the crashed Southwest jet, making it harder to see the passengers still trapped inside. Smoke rolls across the tarmac and heat beats against my face. My phone buzzes incessantly: 'Alert 3 at TF Green; plane has crashed on runway, on fire, evacuating passengers;' plus calls to nearby police and EMS and fire departments for mutual aid. There's a scream of sirens as two ladder engines from the Warwick Fire De- partment join forces with the struggling firemen from the Aircraft Rescue and Fire Fighting Team, spraying the chemical foam used to extinguish jet fuel.

A dozen EMTs stand at a safe distance like runners at a gate, raring for the go-ahead to treat the passengers, but there's no way to get them out of the plane until the fire's been subdued. Which would have happened by now if the wind hadn't changed direction. This is quickly becoming an even greater disaster.

As the Chief of the Center for Emergency Preparedness and Response at the Rhode Island Department of Health, I was among the first to be notified about the crash. By the time I ran out the door to get to the Emergency Operations Center at the airport, I was already texting my team. My deputy chief, Toby, had put out the initial notification to all Rhode Island hospitals: 'A plane has crashed at TF Green. Estimated 168 souls on board. EMS is assessing. Please provide your bed availability'. The more time they had to determine their ca-pacity, call in their trauma teams, clear beds in the emergency de-partment, or prep the burn cart, the better.

A whip of wind blows some of my hair out of my braid. By the time I brush it from my eyes, the yellow tongue of the evacuation slide has deployed.

'Shit'.

While we need to get the passengers safely cleared, having them slide through an active blaze is a mistake. But the EMTs surge forward, and passengers begin deplaning. The airport fire chief gri- maces, then directs his team to pivot so they can create a physical barrier between the slide and the flames.

Passengers reach the tarmac, sobbing. A flight attendant shep-herds a woman with a piece of metal protruding from her upper arm. One middle-aged man sees the fire and panics, racing in the opposite direction. Another stumbles toward the firefighters, hands clasped over his eyes, shrieking in pain.

A pumper truck arrives, along with the first ambulances. The tri-age coordinator—an EMT at the bottom of the evacuation slide—evaluates each passenger. Those who can walk get directed to the Temporary Reception Center, a tent where a Southwest rep will check them in and make them as comfortable as possible until law enforcement can interview them. Passengers who can't move lie on the ground, moaning, or—worse—in silence. Paramedics pinball between victims, tagging them with triage tape—red, yellow, and green.

Although I've been doing this job for six years, every disaster feels like the first time. The minutes pass differently. It seems to take eons until the fire is subdued, foam coating the plane and the tarmac below. By then, anyone able to get off the plane by themself has been evacuated, and firefighters have deployed ladders to rescue those who remain. Injured passengers litter the tarmac like a macabre quilt. An ambulance zooms into view, and two paramedics leap out with a backboard. They rush to a teenage girl, red-tagged and unmoving, her head haloed by a puddle of blood.

I find myself staring at the spill of red; the horror it evokes. In situations like this, it's hard to remember what is real and what isn't. The Teams app on my phone pings with a member of my depart- ment who has been monitoring social media. 'There was a very pregnant woman on board. Anyone have eyes on her?'

A flurry of responses scroll in—'nos' from the Temporary Recep-tion Center and the transport officer. Has someone already found her? Is she still on the plane? My gaze roams over the wounded, fall-ing on a woman with her back to me, a yellow tag on her shirt and burns on her arms. When she rolls to the side, I see a swollen belly. She lets out an unearthly groan.

Before I can even text that I've found her, an EMT rushes over. He replaces her yellow strip of tape with a red one. "I need transport 'now,'" he shouts.

My phone rings—the call I have been waiting for. "The manifest is in," says Sue, a Southwest Airlines rep, referring to the list of crew and passengers. "Meet at the EOC?"

The Emergency Operations Center is located in a nearby main-tenance building with windows that overlook the scene. The room is jammed with people.

I take a seat beside Sue. She pulls up the manifest on her phone as I pull up the patient tracking system—which allows me to see who's been transported by ambulance, and where, for the last four hours. There are so many legal issues around turning over a list to Southwest that best practice is to sit next to each other and read off names.

A guy from EMS who only started a month ago—Robert? Roger?— blusters in. "Sorry I'm late," he apologizes. "State police just showed up." He clutches the third master list—the dossier of who is or was sitting on the tarmac, and who has been cataloged at the Tem- porary Reception Center. By cross-referencing the three documents, we make sure that everyone has been accounted for.

Sometimes, it's how we figure out who is dead, too.

We start the reconciliation with Sue reading the names of the crew. The pilot and copilot are on Roger's list with minor injuries treated in the field. The flight attendants have all been accounted for, one having been sent to South County Hospital and the rest still in the Temporary Reception Center. "Alice Kennedy," Sue reads, and I scan my tracking system.

"Sent to Roger Williams Medical Center," I reply. 'Roland Gresham. Chinara Adebayo. Alika Adebayo.' "Minh Nguyen?"

I scroll and scroll but cannot find that name.

Roger is flipping through a spreadsheet on his laptop. "Negative," he says finally.

From the background chatter behind us, the deputy chief of EMS interrupts. "Sorry, did you say Nguyen?" Paul asks. "We have a Nguyen ID'd as a decedent."

Sue checks her manifest. "First name?" He shakes his head. "Don't have it."

"This one is a twenty-six-year-old female?"

Paul hunches away, speaking into a radio before turning back to us. "Mine's an elderly man," he replies.

Sue nods, moving down the manifest list and putting a check mark next to another Nguyen.

"Ah, got her," Roger says. "Minh Nguyen. Her name was mis-spelled. Uninjured and checked in at 2:24 p.m."

We continue methodically for over an hour, tuning out the up-dates from the field when the plane is fully evacuated and cleanup of the firefighting foam has begun—it's been linked to PFOS in groundwater, which is a battle we'll have to fight another day. An alert comes in that Rhode Island Hospital is at capacity. Finally, we each scan our lists to make sure all 168 passengers and crew have been checked.

"I only have one sixty-seven," Sue mutters. "Let me count again." And then: "There's a lap infant. Twenty-three months."

"Who was the child with?" I ask.

"Elisabeth Abbott," Sue answers. "Age twenty-nine."

For a moment we are all lost in our silos, trying to find something—anything—about an infant. "Elisabeth got transported to Kent Hos-pital," I announce.

Roger's eyes are on his screen. "Youngest kid I've got is five."

I dial Kent Hospital and the Emergency Department picks up. "Hi, this is Molly Fitzgerald from Emergency Preparedness and Response," I say. "Do you have an Elisabeth Abbott registered?"

After a brief conversation, I turn back to Sue. "The patient is in open-heart surgery, but there's no record of an infant coming in with her. And no unaccompanied toddler in the ED."

My fingers start flying, texting in our Teams app. 'We've'' ac- counted for 167 of the 168. Missing person is a child, age 2. Can everyone please check for a 2-year-old child?' One by one the responses trickle in:

'No minors.'

'No children.'

'Negative.'

Hasbro Children's Hospital, which is part of Rhode Island Hos-pital, responds with the name of a six-year-old patient—but with a different last name and two parents present.

My mind revs into overdrive. Is the toddler deceased and so small that the firemen sweeping the plane missed it? Was the toddler safely evacuated and kidnapped? It seems ridiculous to even think it.

I turn to the airport fire chief. "Can you get eyes inside the plane?"

His radio crackles as he sends one of the firefighter EMTs onto the plane.

Here's the most important thing I've learned about my job: You can't stop a disaster from occurring, no matter how much you pre-pare. But if you cannot keep everyone safe, you can damn well make sure they are all accounted for.

The alternative—the 'not knowing—'is untenable. I should know.

A burst of static bleeds through the radio. "Chief," I hear, "we found the child."

There's more information relayed—the final passenger was tucked inside the cubby where the drinks cart is usually stowed. Through the windows of the EOC I can just make out a firefighter in full gear, standing in the open doorway of the plane. He holds an American Girl doll in his arms. The doll wears a neon T-shirt identi-fying it as a character in our extensive training drill, the same neon shirt worn by the 167 adult actors hired to play the parts of airline passengers in this simulation.

"This is the exercise director," I hear, over the radio. "We are call-ing End Ex. The exercise has ended at 5:57 p.m. Hot washes will begin at 6:30 p.m. in parking lot B."

And . . . whew. The drill that has taken three years to plan has been successfully completed. All the adrenaline rushes out of me, leaving me shaky on the seat between Sue and Roger.

* * *

Rhode Island is a small state, so everyone in my field knows me. But when people meet me for the first time, they're always surprised that the head of the department is only twenty-five. As a kid I was a brainiac, skipped a grade, and graduated from Columbia with a com- bined B.S. and master's in public health at nineteen. In college, I worked summers at the R.I. Department of Health as a scholar, their fancy term for an intern, studying how much time we'd actually have to evacuate a nursing home that lost heat or air-conditioning. The summer after my junior year, I collected data that helped emergency managers locate residents who used electricity-dependent medical equipment. I graduated midyear and was officially working in the Center for Emergency Preparedness and Response by February 2020.

(continued on Tuesday)

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