The scrubby pine faded away, leaving only beach grass and scattered wild roses. We emerged onto an exposed granite ledge that opened like a doorway to infinity. The sun's reflections off the ocean waves bounced off every surface.
The ocean sprawled endlessly to the horizon. The drop was steep, perhaps sixty feet, to jagged rocks where waves exploded in white foam and spray. A salt-heavy wind that tasted of seaweed accompanied the percussive sound.
"Oh, damn." I stepped closer to where the granite ended. "No guardrails or warning signs. Only gravity and good luck."
Wes stood by me shoulder to shoulder. "People who belong here know the dangers. Everyone else learns quickly or finds somewhere safer to visit."
The edges of the ledge where we stood were worn smooth by decades of weather. Salt crystals crusted the limits of the spray's reach during high tide.
Balancing with Wes between solid ground and empty air was exhilarating. Standing there took guts, but I trusted that Wes knew every inch of the island.
He moved closer to the precipice, staring out at the horizon with an expression I'd never seen before. His usual guardedness had dissolved into something peaceful. The wind whipped hisdark hair across his forehead, and his breathing synched up with the rhythm of the waves against the stone.
For a moment, he looked like he'd found his perfect place in the world.
Then, something changed. It was as subtle as a cloud passing over the sun. It was a barely perceptible flinch, but it was there.
It didn't last more than seconds, but that was long enough to ring alarm bells in my head. "Wes?"
The world dropped out from under us. The granite didn't crack or splinter—it ceased to exist beneath our feet. One moment, we stood on solid stone that had weathered Atlantic storms for millennia, and the next, we were falling, suspended in the air.
My stomach lodged in my throat. The sensation lasted forever and no time at all—a nauseating moment of weightlessness before the ledge below rose up to meet us.
The impact drove every molecule of air from my lungs. I hit the stone shelf shoulder-first, and the momentum rolled me sideways. Loose rocks rained off the side of the ledge, tumbling to the surf below.
"Eric!" Wes's voice cut through the ringing in my ears, sharp with panic. His hands appeared at my shoulders and skull, fingertips probing gently for damage. "Where are you hurt? Can you move your fingers? Your toes?"
I'd never heard Wes's voice like that—frayed, desperate. It cracked through the ringing in my ears before his usual control slid into place.
I pushed myself up to sitting, taking stock while dust settled around us. My shoulder screamed, and the rock had scraped my right palm raw where I'd tried to break the fall, but nothing stood out as a critical wound.
I tried to lighten the moment. "Well, that's one way to get a closer look at the local geology."
Wes didn't crack a smile.
We'd landed on a granite shelf roughly ten feet below our original position, wide enough to accommodate both of us but not much more. My granola bars littered the perch, and my thermos had sustained a dent. Above us, the cliff face showed fresh wounds where the overhang surrendered to time and salty seas.
"Fucking erosion." Wes sat back on his heels while his hand raked through his hair. "Should have seen it coming. Should have tested the stability before we got that close to the edge."
"How exactly were you supposed to predict geological failure?" I wiped a trickle of blood from my forehead with my sleeve. "You're observant, not omniscient."
"I know every inch of this island—every weak point where the rock's been compromised by weather. Monitoring erosion patterns is part of my job description."
I struggled to my feet, testing my weight distribution. "Sometimes catastrophic failure just happens… in every life venue."
He wasn't listening. He'd shifted his attention to assessing possible escape routes, examining the cliff face above and below us. He probed potential handholds, testing their reliability.
The old Wes was back—shoulders squared against the world.
After several minutes of systematic evaluation, he concluded, "Can't go up. The entire section's compromised. One wrong move, and we'll bring down half the cliff face."
I joined him at the ledge's outer edge, peering down at the jagged coastline that stretched toward churning water. The rocks below looked like broken teeth, sharp and unforgiving. Waves crashed against them, occasionally sending spray high enough that we could taste salt mist on our tongues.
"And going down looks like an efficient way to become seagull breakfast. Looks like we're officially stranded on our own private slice of Maine."
"Pretty much."
The reality of our situation settled in as thick fog gathered. We were stuck on a granite shelf, hanging between sky and sea like we'd wandered into the world's most inconvenient thriller.
