“Absolutely not. The last thing I need is the boys I went to high school with cutting me open. They couldn’t even dissect a fucking frog in biology.”

“I feel like they give them training for stuff like this.”

“No. I can climb up.”

“You can climb up? What are you, Spiderman?”

“I did some rock climbing out at Big Sur. It was more dangerous than this.”

“The fact that you just fell and almost died seems to contradict what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t die or even come close to it. I’m mildly winded.”

“Then why are you just lying there.”

“I’m resting. It’s restful here. Next time I go camping, fuck White Mountain. I’m just gonna roll out a tent right here and look up at the stars.”

You can’t see a single star because of the fog. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

“Don’t.” He forces himself to a sitting position. “I’m coming.”

“You’re at least ten feet away from me.”

“Fifteen, but the angle of the rock is almost forty-five degrees. This wouldn’t even count as rock climbing. It’s advanced hiking, and I could do it hammered.”

“You might be bleeding internally.”

He stands, looking unsteady as hell. I hope he was right about doing this drunk, because that’s what he looks like right now. He grasps onto a ridge above him and pulls. The first part of the way works pretty well, because like he said, it’s not that steep.

But the drop right where I’m standing is a solid five feet.

There’s a grunt. “I might need your help with this last part.”

“Listen. For the record I vote calling for help. If we both go over the edge and die in the sea, I want it to be clear that I was against this.”

“Fine,” he says between gritted teeth. “Don’t help.”

I make sure my feet are planted on fairly dry ground, grasp his hand, and pull as hard as I can. There’s a moment of uncertainty where we waver, his weight more than my strength, but then we collapse on the rock. It’s hard and cold and pointy in some places—but it’s never felt so good as right now. I press my cheek against it and let out a sob of relief.

Can adrenaline make you drunk? I feel a little hammered as I stand up. I stagger a little, but he doesn’t move from the ground. “Beau? Mr. Rochester?”

“I like it when you call me Beau,” he says without moving.

“Can you walk?”

“I may have understated how much pain I was in down there.”

“Oh my God, you are bleeding internally.”