Chapter 3

"He’s still not waking up? What do we do?"

Caleb’s assistant ran back up with the first-aid kit, crouching beside me to start CPR.

Caleb grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"Don't touch him."

The assistant looked up, eyes wide with confusion.

Caleb didn't explain. He leaned down and put his fingers back under my nose.

One. Two. Three.

His face remained a mask, but his Adam's apple bobbed heavily.

He stood up, pulling the assistant to the far side of the platform, turning their backs to the crowd below.

"Call 911."

"What? I thought you said he just fainted—"

"I said call 911. Stop arguing."

Terrified by Caleb’s tone, the assistant pulled out his phone and opened the keypad.

Caleb’s hand slapped down over the screen.

"Call them, but don't do it here. Go down the stairs and find somewhere quiet."

The assistant nodded quickly, ducking down the wooden stairs of the tower.

Caleb crouched back beside my body. He splashed more water on my face, yelling, "Wake up, buddy!" making sure his voice carried.

But his other hand was wrapped around my wrist, three fingers pressed hard against my pulse point.

He held it there for a long time.

He felt nothing.

Down below, my dad and Mr. Vance had already walked over to the BBQ area.

Chloe skipped ahead of them, still broadcasting live, her camera finally drifting away from the tower.

Most of the crowd had dispersed, but a few coworkers were still looking up.

One of them whispered to another.

"Is he really okay? He hasn’t moved in like fifteen minutes."

"The instructor said he just fainted. Caleb’s been running this jump for eight years. He knows what he’s doing."

"True."

The two of them turned toward the buffet.

Caleb heard every word from the platform.

He looked down at my face. My lips had turned from a dull blue to a deep, bruised purple.

He stood up, pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and smoothed it out.

It was the liability waiver.

At the very bottom, in the signature line, the name "Ethan Miller" was written in clean, heavy strokes. The handwriting carried the distinct, pressurized style of an older man.

He refolded the paper and slid it deep into his pocket.

The motion was swift, practiced.

I floated above him, watching him hide the evidence.

That wasn't my signature.

This morning, in the parking lot, my dad had slammed the tablet in front of me.

"Sign it."

I had read the terms.

The third line read in bold, black letters: "Participants must certify they do not suffer from any pre-existing heart conditions, high blood pressure, or other medical issues."

"Dad, it says right here. No heart conditions."

He snatched the stylus out of my hand and scribbled my name across the screen.

"Drop the excuses. We're going to be late."

After signing, he handed the tablet to Caleb, slipping two hundred-dollar bills under the counter.

"Hey, instructor. My son is a bit of a coward. When he gets up there, give him a little push if you have to."

Caleb took the cash, feeling its thickness, and grinned.

"Consider it done. No problem at all."

Now, those two hundred-dollar bills and that digital waiver record were locked in Caleb’s possession.

Hidden away.

Half an hour passed.

The ambulance still hadn't arrived. The retreat was in a state park, nearly fifteen miles from the nearest hospital.

Caleb sat in the corner of the platform, his arms wrapped around his knees, chewing through toothpick after toothpick.

When one splintered, he spat it out and reached for another.

My body lay on the deck. My head was tilted to the side, my mouth slightly agape, like a sentence cut short.

The water on my face had dried, leaving salt-stained streaks across my skin.

The smell of grilled meat and laughter drifted up from below.

Someone had hooked up a Bluetooth speaker, playing upbeat pop music.

In the distance, I could see my dad standing beside Mr. Vance, holding a paper plate in one hand and serving him a skewer of ribs with the other.

He was smiling. He was smiling so hard his face looked strained, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Mr. Vance took a bite and muttered something approvingly.

My dad immediately bowed his head lower, nodding like a bobblehead.

Chloe sat on a folding chair with her legs crossed, three different cans of soda lined up in front of her.

She blew a kiss to her phone camera.

"Thanks for the concern, guys! The guy is totally fine. He’s just super dramatic and fainted because he’s a scaredy-cat."

The comments flooded the chat. Some asked, "Is he awake yet?" while others posted laughing emojis.

She glanced at the screen and giggled.

"Seriously, don't worry. His dad literally said he’s been doing this since he was a kid. He just plays sick when he wants attention."

I watched it all from the sky—on one side, the smell of sizzling meat; on the other, a corpse slowly growing cold on a hundred-and-fifty-foot platform.

Two different worlds, separated by thirty yards, a plume of grill smoke, and a collective, unspoken agreement to look the other way.

No one looked up at me anymore.

Even Caleb had stopped looking. He stared at his sneakers, lost in his own head.

Finally, the wail of a siren pierced the heavy afternoon air.

The siren grew louder, shattering the lazy atmosphere of the park.

Several coworkers paused, forks suspended in mid-air.

Caleb bolted upright, looking down at the parking lot.

"Shit," he muttered.

He ran to the railing and yelled down to the crowd.

"Hey, don't worry, everyone! That's just the private medical van I booked for us! Standard health check for the retreat package!"

A few coworkers looked up, nodded, and went back to their food.

But my dad’s fork stopped.

He stared at the white ambulance pulling into the gravel parking lot, the smile on his face slowly freezing.

That wasn't a corporate wellness van.

The red and blue lights on the roof were flashing.