Rooks bluster into a flutter of wings and beaks, encompassing me. Some land on ropes, cawing. Mocking.
Defiantly, I clutch and clasp …
My legs dangle over the bridge and the canyon hundreds of yards below. A wail erupts from my mouth, brutish and loud.
Never let go.
I may not have fast in me, but I do have stubbornness. Dogged, obtuse determination. Compliments of Dad.
The dulcimer music stops.
“Marguerite!” I yell, my body swaying, rope gnashing my arms. “Help me!”
“If only I could,” her voice comes from somewhere.
The bridge jostles. My blistered hands bounce over the stiff rope fibers. What’s happening?
Marguerite. Crossing the bridge toward me.
“Are you insane?!” I yell. “I’ll fall!”
“It is possible,” she says casually. “This bridge is a piece of art. Designed and created. You can appreciate that, no?”
The rope digs into the skin of my cramped fingers. My body’s so heavy.