When my brother did it, it was a swan dive drawn against a high, pale sky, and I see it still in my dreams: the way he rose and hung, and then the long fall—no breath in my lungs—and how his hands came together an instant before he struck. Only three of us were there to see it, but word of it spread.

Robert French made the dive off Devil’s Ledge …

Did you hear?

Can you believe it?

At the time, the world record cliff dive was only fifteen feet higher, some guy in Argentina. But this was Charlotte, North Carolina, a little place in 1967. That was five years ago, but on that day in this little city, my oldest brother became a god. People asked him why he did it and how and a thousand other questions, but only four of us knew the truth that mattered, and I dream of that part, too: the way light hit his face when it broke from the water, the eyes that looked brighter and more alive. Let the Vietcong touch that, he’d said; and that was the thing only a few of us knew.

Robert was going to Vietnam.

“I’m going to do it,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“This time it happens.”

“Go on, then.”

“Becky Collins, right?”

“She’ll love you forever.”

I’d pictured the dive a thousand times, and it felt a lot like this: the wind in my face, the smell of heat and dust and distant rain. I rose to my toes, arms spread. “Give me a three count.”

“Wait. What?”

“No talking, all right? This is hard enough as it is.”

“Dude…”

“What?” I didn’t look away from the drop.

“Dude. Seriously…”

Something in his voice was strange to me: a note of doubt or panic or fear. “What’s the problem, Chance? We’re here, right? Two weeks ’til graduation.”

“Just jump, dude. Make it a jump.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“You know you can’t actually do it, right? You can’t make that dive.” Chance looked embarrassed, turning his hands to show the palms. “I mean … come on. There’s a pattern, right? You talk about it. You stand there. You never actually dive.”

“But you egg me on. You tell me to do it.”

“Because I’ve never once thought you were stupid enough to actually dive. It’s thirteen stories.”

“You think I’m afraid?”

“No.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“I think your brother’s dead whether you do it or not.”

The color drained from my face.

Chance didn’t care. “Robert is gone, man. He won’t see the dive or pat you on the back or say, Welcome to the club. He’ll still be underground in that cemetery you hate. He’ll still be a dead hero, and you’ll still be a kid in high school.”