nearly as far up as he’d gotten before. I didn’t say a word or breathe, all my will bent on him not falling again. But he did anyway, crumpling in a heap at my feet. It was the worst sound I’d ever heard. He turned to me, eyes wide in fear. I couldn’t tell if it was the fall or my sudden appearance that scared him. “What are you doing?” I cried. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” He sat up and sucked on his shredded fingers. Now I knew why his hands looked so terrible. Then he got up, apparently—amazingly—unhurt, and turned himself once more to the wall. I grabbed his arm. “No,” I said. “No. You’re not doing this here.” “I have to get up there,” he said in his strange hoarse voice, pointing upward. The full moon peeked over the edge of the Lowell, as if it were spying on us. “Up where?” “To the top.” “Why?” “I need to get out.” I tightened my grasp on him. “No,” I said. “You’re not jumping off any buildings.” He looked at me with hurt surprise. “I’m not going to jump,” he said. “I’m not falling on purpose, you know.” He looked up. “I just need to get up there.” “On the roof?” He looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Did you follow me?” I demanded. I could feel him shrinking inside his coat. “Not on purpose,” he said. “Not on purpose,” I repeated. “Seems like you do a lot of things without meaning to.”
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