Rather than walking to the parking lot where his bike is chained, he keeps going along the sandy grass until it gradually rises, slowly climbing to the cliffs. They’re not unreasonably tall; he can look down and not get too queasy. A fall would still be nasty because of the rocks at the bottom.

Sitting with his legs crossed, he closes his eyes to face the setting sun. It’s still warm, and he breathes deep—taking in all the salt and fishy, seaweedy smells—and exhales, letting his shoulders fall.

He looks down and sees something shiny. Someone probably dropped some trash over the side.

When he’s ready to head home, he gets to his feet and brushes the sand from his shorts and legs. He doesn’t look where he’s going and nearly steps on a seagull.

It screeches and hurries to get away, wings throwing sand in his face, and he raises his arms to protect his eyes, stepping back.

He forgets that there’s not much to step back onto, and his foot falls through the loose sand into open air. Momentum and gravity work together against him, drawing him back and down.

The water rushes to meet him. Somehow, he avoids the rocks and drops into the waves like a stone. His momentum slows, but he can’t find the light. Everything is darkening; silence presses into his ears—