The canyon’s sandstone walls steepen until they’re in a sort of roofless hallway, moving single file up a steep trail through the brush and trees. There’s a stale, damp smell in the air, as if the sun seldom reaches the canyon’s bottom. Then the walls lay back, and the canyon opens up into a small amphitheater filled with live oak. They turn back and up, and climb the walls they had previously been under, until they’re on a ridge; there’s a view back down to the scattered lights in Modjeska Canyon. And off to the east, as Hana said, there is a long fuzzy band of light, just visible: the Highway 15 corridor, in Riverside County.

“Whoah. You can really see a long way. Do you come up here often?”

He thinks he sees a small smile, but in the dark he can’t be sure. “No. Not often. Look here.” She walks to a big oak. “This tree’s called the Swing Tree. Someone’s tied a rope on that big upper branch, out away from the trunk. You take it”—she grabs the thick rope with both hands, just above a knot at the end of it—“and walk back uphill with it—and then—”

She runs down the hill, swings off into the space above the canyon, makes a slow turn, flies back in and runs to a halt.

“Whoah! Let me try that!”

“Sure. There are two ways to go—you can run straight out and come straight back in, or you can take off angling out away from the tree, and that’ll put you in a circle and land you on the other side of the trunk. You have to be sure to go hard that way, though, to get around the trunk all the way.”

“I see. Believe I’ll go straight out, this time.”

“Good idea.”

He seizes the rope, runs outward, flies off into space. It’s slow, dark. Air hoots in his ears. He feels a little point of something like weightlessness, or weight coming back, at the outer limit of his ride—hung out there for a moment—then it’s around and back in, whoah, got to run quick on touchdown. “Great! Fantastic! I want to do it again.”

“Well then we’ll just have to take turns. My turn now.” She takes off with a quick sprint. Dark shape floating out there, hair flying wild against the stars—creak of rope against branch, up above—flying woman coming in from deep space, right at him—“Whoah!” He catches her up and they collide into a hug.

“Oops. Sorry. Took off at an angle, I guess.”

He flies again. It’s funny how simple all the real pleasures are (did he think that?). It’s a long rope, the flights last a long time. Don’t try to figure out how long, Jim thinks. It doesn’t matter. Avoid timing, distance records, etcetera.…