Spotting Richard, someone on the ground pointed. People shouted and waved their arms. One by one, camera phones illuminated every upturned face in a bluish glow.

The car shuddered and stilled.

“On the count of three, I’ll let go, okay?” he called.

Her pulse pounded in her throat. Scrunching her face, she wedged her backside tight against the seat, pressed her toes into the front of the car, and leaned over her hands. “Okay.”

“One…two…three.”

The gondola jerked and careened forward.

Heart racing, she slammed her body into the seat, closing her eyes as her spine crushed against metal.

The car pitched, rocked, and then quieted.

Her breath high and shallow in her chest and her stomach a roiling, volatile pit, she squeezed her eyes tighter and waited.

“Sir? Go back to your car!” The balding man’s voice boomed over the bullhorn.

She dared a glance over one shoulder.

Richard was halfway down the beam.

Her right calf tightened and cramped. Wincing, she flexed her foot and wiggled her toes to ease the ache. One false move and Richard would plummet to the ground. Gripping the bar until her knuckles burned, she searched for the help she had to believe was coming.

In the midst of the throng, the man in the suit gestured to his entourage. “We’ve got a nutcase on our hands. Somebody, call the cops.” With a squawk, the bullhorn went dead.

He’s not a nutcase. He’s a doctor. Though foolhardy, he was one hundred percent in his right mind. She checked in with the struggling mother. Her efforts were increasingly labored. How much longer could she restrain her boy?

Again, Tessa mustered courage and darted a glance to Richard. He was gone. She gasped and rose a few inches, twisting to search the metal framework. She spotted him at the hub of the wheel, and the torque in her spine eased.

Chest heaving, he paused, head down, clinging to the beam. Slowly, he released one hand, lowered onto the support below, and began the arduous climb back up. Rung by rung, hand over hand, he shimmied toward the swinging car.

Spotting him, the mother sprang to her knees. She crouched over the boy, securing him to the seat with her body. “What are you doing?”

Another rung and Richard was two-thirds of the way up the beam.

“I’m a doctor. Try to stay still!”

With every convulsion of the child, the wheel shook.

The woman’s face contorted. “I-I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

Tessa clocked his progress up the truss. Three rungs to go. Then two.

He released his right hand and strained for the final rung.

Suddenly, the thousands of colored bulbs ignited in a zillion-watt rainbow.

Recoiling, he flung an arm over his eyes, dis-lodging his right foot. He slid backward and, grappling for a hold, slipped off the top of the beam.