Page 115 of Free Fall

Determined, I push ahead.

My only way back to Sejin’s smile is onward. The flow will return to me. It has to…

I just have to get over the lip of the roof. That’s all. Then I’ll be on the wall with razor-edge holds and no time to rest.Fuck.

I’ll make it. I must make it. But first things first.

Get up over the lip…

*

Sejin

In a strangedaze, I park my car and start the hike across the wet meadow toward Tom Reed. I feel like I’m not real. Like the morning isn’t real. Like maybe I’m dead and this is Hell, or I’m asleep and this is a dream-almost-nightmare.

The morning is beautiful. The birds are singing.

Tom is there alone with his scope already trained on the wall. He’s typing into his phone, probably updating his social media and website with the details of what climbers and teams are on the wall and what routes they’re taking. I walk toward him without any attempt to disguise my approach, but he still seems startled when he notices me.

“Good morning!” Tom calls out. “Here to watch some climbing?”

I nod. My throat is tight. Words won’t come out, much less a smile.

“You’re in for something special,” he says, and I can’t tell how much of his tone is admiration and how much is anxiety. “There’s a free soloist on the wall.”

He points at El Cap, his finger drawing the now-familiar line of Heart Route for me. “I think he’s taking this route up. It’s a rare one to begin with. Only been free roped-climbed a handfulof times by some of the best…including this guy. We’ve all been speculating that he’s been training for it, but… well, we all thought he’d be crazy to try it. But there he is. Guess this is his day. Hopefully.” He gestures at his scope. “Want to see?”

I nod and carefully place myself against the eyepiece as my fingers steady the cold metal.

“There are a few more teams on the wall too,” he says. “But I admit, I probably won’t be watching them much until this guy sends this route…or doesn’t.”

I wish he wouldn’t keep qualifying his remarks. His doubts feel like kicks to my numb body. Bruising, even though I can’t feel them.

Because I can’t feel anything.

I spot Dan easily. He’s hanging in one spot on the pitch below the Heart Formation’s roof, shaking out his hands. I stare at him, wondering what he’s thinking. Wondering if he’s going to pop off the wall and die. Wondering why I love this nightmare of a man.

“This fellow is different from some of the others,” Tom says. “Name’s Dan McBride. He’s a secretive sort. No cameras for him. I hear he’s been offered some sponsorships, but is too invested in the ‘purity’ of the sport to accept them. Though how he lives is beyond me. Probably in a van or car like most of these dedicated climbers, but there’s always a question of how they afford the campgrounds and gear. Maybe he has family money.”

“No,” I whisper, but I’m pretty sure Tom doesn’t hear me. He prattles on.

“Not many friends or fans amongst the regulars for this guy either. He’s not much of a sprayer—that means he doesn’t brag about what he accomplishes much.”

“Yeah,” I say, because I know this, but the fellow doesn’t care. He keeps talking.

“Not bragging is sort of an admirable quality, which you’d think the other climbers would like, but mostly they think this guy’s an arrogant dick. Maybe he is, but he’s always been nice enough to me when I’ve talked to him. Well, maybe ‘nice’ isn’t the right word, but he hasn’t been a jerk either. He’s got the energy of a man on a mission.”

I stare at Dan through the scope as he launches ahead on the route. I swallow hard enough my throat clicks.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Climbing,” I manage to get out.

“Ah, yes, well, that’s better than the alternative.” He chuckles.

I feel some vomit rise in the back of my throat as Dan makes his way toward the roof. I remember his voice, the hitch in it, the uncertainty, whenever he’s described this part to me: “It gives me the heebie-jeebies,” he’s said more than once.

I watch as Dan hesitates again and then moves forward.