My shift finished thirteen minutes ago, but I'd skulked at the foot of the bridge for ten of those. I glanced at my phone and saw that it was already past midnight. With a long day ahead of me tomorrow, my feet were rooted to the ground as I watched the dark, cold river below.

A perfect half-moon canopy painted white covered the gap over the creek. The beams crisscrossed either side, plenty wide to squeeze a grown man through and the one space my gaze averted whenever I crossed.

The bridge is unremarkable, but it's what you don't see that charges the hair on the back of my neck. It's not the elevation but the idea of a dodgy beam or rickety slat giving way underfoot. I feared the shock of the fall as that would probably kill me first—the split second, my heart hugged my throat as my soul screamed, "Oh, shit."

Timberline bridge lay nestled between a small chasm flanking Aldridge Creek, a tributary of the Ana River. The drop underneath is at least one hundred feet. My sense of balance faltered as I edged closer while my heart began the predictable ascent.

In moments like these, my brother's words always come: "If you believe you can do something, you're halfway there already. Don't worry so much, Atlee."

I reached for the security of the handrail that would steer me across and guide me back to solid ground. I flipped the Bluetooth on my cell, syncing both, and scrolled to the only thing that calmed my treacherous waters—music. I pressed play as my Chucks hit the pavement with a rhythmic cadence.

One step became two, became five. Five steps became seven, became...

Near the halfway point, a figure of a boy perched on the far side of the guardrail. He stood close enough to warrant inspection. Aspen trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and the same wind blew strands of errant dark hair in front of his face. The rubber sole of his sneakers squeaked as he holstered himself up and positioned himself between the trusses to jump.

I stopped dead, slipping an earbud out. He wasn't jumping, was he?

My heart spasmed, moving toward a high-speed collision with my stomach, and I was one 'don't do it' away from spilling the contents of my stomach onto the floor. A tattered guitar case plastered in stickers from bygone bands lay at his feet. His eyes were hidden in the shadows, but I could feel their intensity at whatever he was looking at, even from a distance.

"What are you doing?" I called out. It was a half-hearted attempt to grab his attention; part of me hoped that he wouldn't hear me, that the wind would carry my words away and leave us both to our solitude. But as his head snapped up and his moody gaze locked onto mine, I knew there was no turning back.

The stranger's balance wobbled before he regained composure. There was silence—an endless, unbearable silence that stretched on for miles. If he didn't move, my hands would have to slide around and between his legs to pass without losing touch with the railing. My mind raced with a million questions, each jostling for position at the forefront of my thoughts.

But even as each clamored for attention, I could only utter, "Please get down and out of my way."

The boy's eyebrows rose, and he actually chuckled before saying, "But the view is glorious."

Dad always said, "No good deed goes unpunished," but he neglected to say whether you should still try. He probably didn't need to, but in my case, perhaps he should have because there would be no rescue attempt. My legs reminded me they were at one with the ground and wouldn't even bother themselves to try. But, I needed to say something, anything.

"Tell me your name?" I asked.

"Sam," he replied, "but people call me Fenton."

Tiny beads of sweat broke on my forehead the longer I looked at him. Not desiring a nickname to scout against the obituaries next week, I replied, "Fenton, get down right now, you asshole."

He ever-so-slightly smirked. "You asked me my name so you could call me an asshole and make your verbal attack more personal?"

"Yes," I stuttered, unable to find my elaborate words as he leaned further forward on the railing. "I was hoping it would be enough for you to get down."

He shrugged saying nothing more. I glanced heavenward and then back to the other side of the creek. Two houses down, the porch light from the home where I grew up crept into the darkness. Dad was home, but it seemed a continent away. "If you're jumping, you need to know this my bridge and I need to get past."

He turned his head to face me, a small frown creasing the area between his brows. "Your bridge?" He swung his legs over the edge and sat with his feet still dangling as if he'd never move from this spot. "I'm waiting for something."

I hoped that he was just some whacked-out kid, just up there for the high or stargazing at whatever constellations hung low over our heads. "Still," I said, drawing it out, "you should come down. I need to get past."

He swung his legs over the edge and sat with his feet still dangling as if he'd never move from this spot. "I'm waiting for something."

"For what?" I asked as if he might actually answer.

"My cue." His eyes stayed trained on me, but it was more observation than hostility.

"This is no place to loiter," I said.

"Are you a cop?" He laughed.

"A cop? No. I work at my parents restaurant on the boardwalk."

"If not a cop, why are you here? Why do you care? Maybe—."

I cut him off. "It's the only route home, and now you're in my way. Why do you have to be here?" I countered with the same question.

A single finger raised, pressing against his full lips to prevent me from interrupting again.

"I'm jumping," is all he said.

The murky world around me swam before my eyes, making the boy blur. Tracking the handrail down until the dirt road took over, I could make it within seven strides if I didn't stop to call his ambulance until the other side. That felt right and wrong in equal measure.

Fenton noticed me pause. "Tell me, what frightens you the most? You do that honestly, and I'll consider climbing down."

"There are lots of things that scare me," I answered, caught off guard, surprised by the sudden question. "Five-o'clock traffic, undiagnosed sepsis, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa—but I'll start with you, standing up there."

I had no idea why I fear-spilled my brain at his feet, but every nerve in my body was raw and bloodied at the sight of him.

His moody stare softened a little, and then Fenton nodded; his lips pulling into a smirk making one dimple popped on a lone cheek. "I agree. Sepsis is a silent killer."

Seconds later, he frowned, and I blinked again, realizing how intently I'd been staring at him. His proximity to the edge was doing a number on my lungs as the telltale shrinking of them forced me to begin panting.

"Are you having a baby, or is it just the way you're breathing?" he asked.

"Heights," I blurted. "You're making me panic."

Fenton regarded me with curiosity out of the corner of his eye, and then he glanced toward the opposite end of the bridge and back to me.

"You know, it's not fear of heights; it's the fear of death and that the fall will kill you." His body tilted a fraction to peek down at the swollen river below. "If you're going to fear anything, skip to the punchline. Pick death."

"You're even more of a dick than I first imagined. Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes you've just got to jump. The whole what if I fall, what if I fly..." Fenton looked thoughtful for a moment before a mischievous grin spread across his face. "You ever been bungee jumping?"

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" My stomach lurching at the mere thought of it.

"Relax," he chuckled, his laughter light and infectious. "I'm just messing with you."

My blood threatened to thicken in my aorta because my heart started a nagging ache.

His eyes flashed with sudden concern as the pain radiated outwards in my chest, and I bent, placing my hands on my knees, and concentrated only on my breathing.

"Do you have a heart problem?"

The unspent adrenaline rushed to my heart. I nodded. I probably did at this rate. My hand rested on my chest to ease the erratic pounding.

Fenton's nose scrunched up. "Really? Because your heart's not there."

For a moment, as I steadied my breathing, we simply stood on opposite sides, our eyes locked.

"Where is it then?" I asked.

"Slightly left of the sternum," he answered.

I dropped my hand further.

"Lower still," he said.

I frowned, certain of where my heart was but at the same time, it felt like my whole chest was pounding. "You a cardiologist?"

A slow smile built across his face, and Fenton shook his head. "Maybe I'm a ghost. Then you can feel at ease ignoring me and minding your own business."

"You're just a pain in the ass," I shot back.

He shrugged, "I'm a ghost with a pain in the ass."

Holding my aching chest, I grumbled, "You're fucking annoying."

He gave a humorless laugh. "You're here because you think you can save me. You don't even know me."

I took a step closer to him, my hand inching towards his arm. "I don't need to know you. I just need to know that you're safe and I get my railing back." Maybe it was more; the sadness in his eyes or the way his fingers fidgeted with the edges of his T-shirt. Whatever it was, I couldn't walk away even then.

He scanned the dark expanse of the creek below, then forcibly swallowed, and I caught the movement in his throat. "Take care of my guitar—she's a relic and the only woman that's never let me down."

Fenton sat back against the handrail and swung his legs over the final railing. I watched as his fingers wrapped around the steel. He righted himself, the muscles in his arm tightening as he gripped and pulled himself up to a standing position.

"What are you doing?" I asked. My heart squeezed painfully again. I glanced down at his hands, certain that the sudden pressure on the handrail would make it snap or bend.

"Leaving," he replied, and then he jumped.

The splash was faint, confirming how elevated the drop had been. Saltwater flooded my mouth, and I sprinted faster than my racing thoughts. I refused to slow and allow myself time to wonder how many fragments his cranium was now in.

My hand skimmed the rail with the bare tips of my fingers until the dust from the dirt path kicked up around me on the opposite side.

A whooping round of applause proceeded in the distance, which lent itself to a crowd gathered below in the chasm.

My eyes closed. Bridge diving. He was bridge diving.

What a goddamn asshole.

Heat spread across my cheeks as I shook my head. Convinced he was in the midst of forever consequences, I'd not stopped to consider other reasoning—and he'd let me think it. Safe on solid ground, I pulled my jacket tighter around me and headed in the direction of home.

Bridges

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