Page 116 of Free Fall

I watch as he climbs to a point where he’s hanging by just his fingers and toes.

And then I turn the scope back over to Tom because I can’t watch anymore.

*

Dan

Fuck.

My arms are pumped. My grip loosens against my will, and I know I either have to make a mad dash for the lip—crazy and reckless, because above the lip is a relentless climb of polished granite with razor holds—or risk an insane downclimb back to where I’ll have at least a chance of falling on the ledge, the way Rye and I have discussed before.

I have about two seconds to make my choice.

Three, if I’m lucky.

And I’m wasting those seconds stuck looping on thoughts of Sejin. Thinking of his fear when he wakes and sees that I’m gone. Of his expression when the news comes of my fall. Of his tears. Of that beautiful face without that perfect smile for far too long. He’ll be fine without me one day. It’s the getting to that one day that seems brutal and unfair now.

I can’t think of him, though. I need to make a choice… or this is over.

I glare up at the lip ahead, and the sun pours into my eyes. The rock will be hot. I know this. I’ve trained for it.

But my arms are giving up on me.

I need to rest. It’s possible, if I’m wildly lucky, I could still downclimb all the way to the ledge and sit there for a breather.

Iknowthat’s not possible. I won’t make it.

I start down anyway. I feel my grip weakening. My hands and arms throb. My shoe skids instead of clinging, and it happens.

Falling is nothing like flying.

In case anyone ever asks.

*

Sejin

“Oh,hell,” Tomsays vehemently. “He fell. Oh, Christ.”

My numbness shatters, and I shove the man aside to look through the scope. I hear Tom beside me speaking quickly, naming the place, the route, and giving Dan’s name. He’s calling 9-1-1.

I stare at the blank space on the wall. My knees go weak. My heart lurches and I turn and vomit into the grass. It’s in my hair, it’s on my chin, and I stare at the white, foamy bile splashed overthe green, my heart burning in agony, and my breath coming in quick gulps.

“No, no, he’s hit the ledge,” I hear Tom say. “I can’t tell. He’s not moving. How long? Yeah, yeah. I’ll stay on the line.”

His hand touches my back.

“You alright, kid?”

I straighten and wipe the back of my hand over my vomit-wet mouth. “He’s on the ledge?”

I lurch over to the scope and look through. Tom has adjusted it to point at the ledge. The bright orange of Dan’s shirt is visible. But it’s true; he’s not moving. Not even a little bit. The scope isn’t good enough to tell if he’s breathing. There’s red, though.

Blood.

There’s blood.

I turn and heave on the grass again, and Tom talks to the 9-1-1 operator. “Might want to send someone to the meadow too. Got a spectator here who’s sick. I think he might know the guy.” He touches my shoulder and I shrug him off. “You know him? You know Dan McBride, son?”