“I’m him!” He whips his head around, but he’s not letting go of the tree.
“Do you like storms?” I ask. “You get quite a view from up—”
“I hate thunder!” Dusty cries. “It’s too loud!”
“It sure is.” I lay my hand on his shoulder, feel the tremble. “There’s someone waiting for me, too. And when I don’t show up at her place, she’s gonna smack me. Hard. Look here.” I slip off the jacket and roll up my T-shirt sleeve. “This bruise? That’s what happened when I told her I was skipping school today.”
Dusty stretches his neck, gets a close look. “That’s big. You let a girl do that to you?”
I grin. “More times than you know.”
Dusty’s teeth chatter, and he turns back toward his tree. “You shouldn’t skip school. Didn’t your dad write you a note?”
My throat burns. “Nope.”
“My dad wrote me a note,” he says. “He’d probably write you one if you asked him.”
“Sounds like you have a great dad.” My burn is a dull ache, and I rub my neck. “Here’s the only thing. I can get you down, but you have to leave your tree. You need to let go of it and hold on to me.”
Dusty shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to get lost. Nikki kept calling me that name. I thought our rope would go to the bottom.” He stares at me with his serious face. “She called me a dummy.”
I turn my head and suck in a laugh.
“I tied it to a tree on top and climbed down. But I’m not too good at knots and I fell—”
“You are the bravest, luckiest fifteen-year-old—”
“I’m only eight!”
I tousle his hair. “Eight-year-old.”
I look over the rope: fifty feet and sound. “I’m wrapping this around you, around me, even this tree. Keep hugging it.” I thread and knot and weave a harness for Dusty. “Okay, big man. You’re going to hate me for two minutes, but I guarantee, then you’ll like me.”
“I like you.” He turns, and I yank his body toward me. He screams.
“Dusty!” Dad hollers up.
I stand, brace against the tree, and lower Dusty. He shrieks the entire way down.
Fifty feet below, screaming stops and crying starts.
“Thank you!” Dusty’s dad hollers it again and again. I’ve never heard a man so grateful, but he’s not leaving. Fool.
“How can I thank you?”
“You can get out of this gorge!” I shout down at them.
They head out the direction we came in, and I curl up to watch the storm. Thunder rumbles the ledge, and I feel it deep inside my chest. His dad wrote him a note. Nice dad.
CHAPTER 2
IT’S SIX BEFORE I scooter back into Brockton. Nestled in California’s San Llamos Valley, the town shows no sign of the storm. No pooling in the ditch fronting Brass Rail Tack, no mud on the Bulldogs baseball diamond. The town is the same now as it was this morning—dry and tough, without much sign of life.
I accelerate, turn left onto Celia Street, and start past the paper mill. It takes a block to finish the job. Hanking’s Mill is its own sprawling city, complete with on-site doctor, cafeteria, and sleepers for when workers need to double back or escape their homes for a night. Divided into eight separate buildings for fire-protection purposes, the mill anchors Brockton on the map and, as Dad owns it, secures most residents in his back pocket.
Hank King has seen to everything, just as Grandpa did before him. And he’s earned Brockton’s respect. Or maybe owns it.
It’s shift change, and millers float out like clouds, break up when they get to the street. I slow and weave between them, pop out near the loop that snakes up One Rock Hill. I back-and-forth on the scooter, reach two brick homes with killer views. I pause and watch a helicopter fly low overhead. Its rhythmic thump softens into the distance. It flies toward the gorge—probably out looking for Dusty’s mysterious rescuer.
Dad kneels in front of our Tudor and coils the garden hose. The manicured lawn, the Roman fountain, the vines climbing the trellis; there’s nothing out of place.
“Dad!” I topple my wheels, wince, and hobble up the drive. “You won’t believe this.”
He doesn’t turn. Dad sets the hose aside and strokes the wildflowers in Mom’s wildflower garden. Today, like every day, he spends hours caring for that garden—the last thing Mom created before she packed up her pottery wheel and anxiety disorder and left. I approach quiet and slow. “Hey, Dad—”
“Bell 205 or Bell 212?”
“I didn’t pay attention. It was just a helicopter. Listen—”
“‘Just a helicopter.’ Do you know how many times they saved my life?” Dad rises, looks me head to toe. “School called.”
“I know, but if you could’ve seen—”
He raises his hand. A huge hand, like mine.
Dad inhales long and loud. “There’s nothing you could say right now to help your situation, so cut the excuses.”
I wish him dead. Right here on the front lawn. Then I wish him resurrected because I need him.
“You should let me finish.” I step toward him, peek down at the garden.
Scottie pushes out the front door, bounds down the steps.
“That was a 212, right? What’s going on?”
Dad muscles his arm around him: my fresh-from-the-shower, perfect older brother. I look at myself, at the blood and grime and swollen ankle.
“Be proud of your brother. Mark the day. On January the twenty-first, Scottie King followed in the footsteps of every true Brockton man.” Dad tears up—an occurrence I’ve not seen in years—and my stomach turns. “He was picked up by Brockton Hand Crew Number One. After his two years in Montana, they took him on reputation alone.”
I stare at my brother and force a smile. “So you’re back for good?”
He sets his jaw, steps out from Dad’s grip. “Not just me. Kyle’s back. Picked up by Mox’s rappel crew. You probably already heard from Troy. Rumor has it he and Cheyenne will be based here, too.”
“Yeah, I just saw him, which brings me to what I was—”
“Quite a homecoming.” Dad steps forward and reattaches his hand to my brother’s shoulder. “Quite a gain for Brockton and the Forest Service.”
I’m going to puke. The wildfire crews that spread out over California during fire season base in our town. My grandpa’s grandpa fought fires in summer and lined his pockets at the mill. It’s what we do. Who we are.
Well, who they are. With the triumphant return of Scottie and his crowd from their first two years of fighting, Dad will strut twenty-four/seven.
I glance at Scottie and nod. “That’s good. That’s great. Wildfires won’t stand a chance.” I look back to Dad, slowly point at our house. “But if you walk in that door and quick flip on the news, I bet you’ll see—”
“I don’t want my evening ruined by whatever stunt you pulled. Not tonight. I’m taking this man out to celebrate. It’s been three years since I turned full attention to the mill and lay down my Brockton ax. It’s about time the next King picked it up.” He pats Scottie and steps toward me. “Maybe by watching Scottie’s choices, some wisdom will rub off on you.” Dad walks toward his truck and gets in. The door slams.
Scottie and I stare at each other. Today was inevitable. The feds and his homecoming were inevitable. But he could’ve waited until tomorrow. I try to speak, but kind words stick.
“He shouldn’t be so hard,” Scottie says. “He was talking like you were coming to dinner, too, until the high school called. What happened today?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he says, and tongues the inside of his cheek. “It doesn’t have to always go down like this. Lose the death wish.” Scottie gives my shoulder a gentle shove, glances down at my bloody legs. “Some of us would like to keep you arou—”
His mouth hangs open, but his gaze is locked, fixed on what dangles from my hand. He leans over and lifts the limp, leathery arm of the Immortals jacket.
“Yours?”
“Course not. Found it in Carver’s Gorge.” I extend it for Scottie to inspect. “You see any of these in Montana?”
“Yeah. There was one walking around.” He shakes his head. “The guy wearing it wasn’t the type to answer questions.” Scottie lets go of the leather. “Does Salome know you have—”
“No, and she won’t, right?”
Scottie exhales loud. “You’re messing with a curse, brother. It starts with those jackets and fills this whole town.” He takes a step toward the truck.
I force a smile. “Yeah, Troy told me. But you came back anyway.”
“I did. Have my reasons.” Scottie turns, pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “You might want to lose that.”
CHAPTER 3
I’M NOT ON THE EVENING NEWS.
There’s a joyful dad, a shaken boy, and a still-sobbing girl. They call me Spider-Man. They call me the Good Samaritan.
Good Samaritan. I pace the garage. Salome will like that.
I can’t be in this house when the two Musketeers return. I turn the brown jacket over in my hands, then plop down onto concrete. I bury my head in my arms and slow my breathing. Dark clouds roll into my mind, and their shadows eclipse clear thoughts. One way out: that’s all I have. Only a rush of adrenaline clears the head, and I won’t find that while crumpled on a slab of cement.
I squeeze back into the jacket, scooter across town through the black night, and park in the shadow of Brockton High.
I’m in search of climbing rope and know where to find it. I race around to the back of the gym and scan the entrance. The athletic door stands thick and gray and windowless. It opens freely, and I slip inside.
The sounds of bouncing basketballs and teachers’ voices echo through the halls. Their Friday-night pickup game is a heated affair. I scamper past the open gym door and duck into the boys’ locker room. There I weave around benches to the equipment storage.
“Bingo.” The thin climbing rope coils in the corner. I’ll bring it back on Monday.
I grab it, hoist it over my shoulder, and slip out of the school. Minutes later, I hide my scooter in tall grass beneath the old water tower. And climb.
The evil clamp around my brain loosens a turn, and I increase my speed. If little Maddie from my YMCA climbing class were here, I’d slow down and lecture her on the importance of good footholds. But tonight my only friend is the invisible one who never leaves.
Depression. Panic attacks. Suicidal tendencies. Professionals have given my head many labels. But they’ve never heard me. This darkness in my head, it’s a separation from the world. A confusion thick as soup.
It’s a brain cloud.
“Hey, Monkey Boy. How high are ya going?”
Salome?
I peek around the tube of concrete on which I hang and stare down at Winders Street, lit and quiet on a Friday night. The street is dead, except for a plastic bag that flutters like a drunken butterfly along the tar. It dodges and weaves and stops—pressed beneath the foot of a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl who isn’t Salome. She bends down and picks it up, carries it toward the tower, and stares up. My stomach drops.
“This yours?” she asks. “Hey! Did you join the Immor—”
“Go on home, Brooke.”
“Ellie’s mom is in San Diego for the weekend.” She talks so loud, Ellie’s mom is liable to hear her. “Why don’t you stop in after you’re finished doing . . . whatever you’re doing?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
She flips her hair, folds her arms, and watches me. Like she’s witnessing the postman out delivering mail. Like it’s downright common to see a guy hanging from an old water tower in the middle of the night.
My arms swing from one twisted shaft of metal to another. Higher, always higher. Rough hands grasp rusted gray rungs, the remnant of a ladder not climbed in years. Callused feet strain for a toehold, and I push toward the peak, toward the word BROCKTON.
Wind whistles and hints at another storm, but each upward swing whooshes away more of the cloud that muddies my mind. With each reach, the distance between me and Brockton stretches like taffy. The town’s grip weakens, its tentacles bust. Give me food, and I’ll stay up here forever.
“Jake!” Brooke’s sharp laugh cuts through the breeze.
I climb higher, reach for the final rung, and wish this tower were sixty feet taller. My hand brushes twigs. I pull up, my face level with a bird’s nest. Five little mouths strain at me.
Mom bird screeches, flies toward me. I duck and bash my forehead against metal. The angry crow flies at the back of my neck.
I scamper to the top and stare out into blackness, waiting for my heart to pound. But it thumps on, slow and steady and dead.
Laughter, faint and harsh. From the villa, temporary housing for firefighter crews that blow in for the fire season. The villa stands vacant now, except for the year-round crazies who sleep during the day and come out at night. They say the Immortals are like vampires. Only wilder.
Their husky voices vanish and Brooke’s figure disappears and silence thickens.
I start to uncoil the rope, and pause. My brain feels like it’s shrinking. I toss the rope to the side.
I stand and close my eyes and lean back out over the railing. No relief. I drop down and sit and dangle my feet. My brain still feels black. I grip the rail, slide legs forward off the catwalk, and let my body hang. I look down sixty feet below, at the headlamps of a toy car. It creeps directly below me and falls dark.
The distance from me to it, it’s beautiful.
Night gusts blow strong. I close my eyes and release one hand. High above the town, my heart flutters, and I smile. Forearm muscles fire and relax. My brain cloud breaks. I stare up at my grip, slowly slide my pinky off the rail.
A jolt deep in my gut kick-starts my heart. I let my ring finger slip free.
I dangle from two fingers and a thumb, and the day feels right.
My hand shakes, tenses. Wind, chill—I feel it all.
Pain shoots through my palm, and my pointer finger twitches rhythmically.
The railing cracks.
My sight sharpens, locks on the next section of catwalk. I need to latch on to keep from falling, but my thoughts clear. In this moment, I’m falling and alive.
I’m Jake King, small and stupid and reeling with a glorious panic.
My free hand shoots up toward solid pipe, and I slide my cramped claw onto the secure section.
Metal snaps, and the busted section falls away.
I watch the chunk of metal fall silently through the night, and my stomach sinks with it. I know where it will land; I see the toy car.
It smashes the windshield, and all is quiet. A horrible quiet. There is no scream, no horn that blares. Just a twisted metal rail stabbed into the top of a car.
I pull myself to the catwalk and peek over the edge. There’s a twinge in my gut, then a slow burn. It finds dry tinder and ignites. I should climb down. The Good Samaritan should help, but I can’t. I double over and squeeze my chest.
From below, a noise.
A car door creaks open, and a leg fights its way out.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Oh, no.”
CHAPTER 4
“THE SCHOOL BOARD VOTES to expel Jake King for the remainder of the year and to deny his candidacy to graduate in the spring.”
I turn to Dad and whisper, “I didn’t even use their rope.”
There are murmurs behind me, satisfied whispers. I glance over my shoulder. Faces smirk and heads nod. If Dad turned around, those happy lips would squeeze tight, but he doesn’t.
“Finally, justice falls on this criminal!” Mr. Ramirez rises, double-fists the table to my left, strides around toward us. He leans over me, hands balled tight. His gaze shifts from Dad to me and back again.
“Control your son, Hank,” he whispers. “Or someone else will.” Mr. Ramirez slaps the table, and I jump.
“I’m so sor—”
He vani
shes out the door.
Dad doesn’t even twitch. He sits and stares at the Council of Eight who just ruined my life.
Three of them wriggle beneath that stare, reach for water glasses. Their lives at Hanking’s Mill just became much more uncomfortable.
But not Superintendent Haynes. He’s in his glory. The pockmark-faced geezer stares at me.
“Next order of business—”
Dad leans into my shoulder. “Come on, son.”
I stand, and we walk out side by side.
One step outside the administration building and I know my life has changed. People who came to support the Ramirezes turn their backs, pretend to mill about. Angry people who’ll never know about Dusty. They whisper and mutter, then whisper again. “Jake had it coming. It’s about time.”
I know Kyle Ramirez is busted up bad—face, ribs, arms. It’s my fault that he’s sliced and scarred. But I only wanted to lose the confusion for a little while.
My gaze flits and searches and locks onto the Lees, silent and still. Salome’s parents push forward. Jacob pats Dad’s back, and Mrs. Lee hugs me tight.
“I love you, Jake,” she whispers. “Salome’s waiting up.” She straightens, breathes deep. “She couldn’t bear to see it. Come over tonight.”
Our neighbors spin and walk away. I fix my gaze on them, and the crowd goes mute. I want them back.
Dad stares at his employees, daring them to speak. His arm rounds my shoulder. “We walk together.”
It’s been years since I felt this hand, and then only to welt my rear. I glance at him, at his proud face. My punishment is about him; it has to be. He takes this personally. Otherwise, that hand would be at home, flipping channels from the couch.
Officer Rogers steps up. “You could’ve been charged. You got off easy.”
“Nobody gets off easy,” Dad says. “You know this wasn’t deliberate. Do your job, Max.”
Max disperses those gathered, and Dad pulls me through what’s left of the self-righteous pack, down the walkway that leads to our car. Dad’s steps slow. I know he’s tired, that I make him that way.
I swallow hard. “Dad, I—”
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