Eric's laugh bubbled up, half-hysteria and half-genuine amusement. "Civilization, as if sitting on a granite shelf qualifies as wilderness survival."
"Technically, we are stranded."
"Technically, we're idiots who got too close to an unstable cliff edge."
The sound of equipment being deployed filtered down from above—metallic clanking, the whisper of rope against stone, and voices coordinating in the clipped shorthand of professionals who'd done this dance before. A shadow passed overhead, followed by the distinctive squeal of pulleys.
The basket appeared. It was metal mesh, with reinforced corners and safety harnesses dangling from the sides.
"Precisely like I predicted."
Eric stared at it. "Seriously? How do you—"
"Not my first time stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."
The basket touched down with a soft scrape against granite. Eric pushed himself to his feet, favoring his left ankle where he'd landed harder than he'd admitted.
"Ladies first?" he asked, gesturing toward our mechanical chariot.
"Get in the basket, Callahan."
He climbed in, and a harness settled around his shoulders. He slowly fastened the buckles.
Eric offered a slight wave. "See you at the top."
I watched the basket rise, carrying him up and away from our shared exile. His face shrank with each foot of altitude, but his eyes never left mine until the cliff's edge swallowed him whole.
Momentarily, I was alone with the ocean and the wind on my granite perch. When the basket descended again, I pushed myself upright, testing my weight on the knee that had been complaining since our landing. A familiar ache pulsed through the joint, but it was bearable.
"Ready down there?" The voice drifted from above, professional and patient.
I raised my hand in acknowledgment, then gripped the sides as machinery engaged with a mechanical sigh. The ledgedropped away beneath me, revealing the full scope of our predicament.
It was barely five feet wide and had felt manageable when we sat on it. We were fortunate the weather cooperated with our rescue. Wind and water from a storm would have plucked us off the granite face without breaking a sweat. From my new, suspended perspective, it looked like a miracle we'd survived with nothing worse than scraped palms and wounded pride.
The basket cleared the cliff's edge, and hands reached for me—steady, competent, familiar. Chief Callahan had come ashore and helped me out of the basket.
"Chief." I offered the word like a handshake.
"Wes." He returned it the same way.
I turned to find Eric approaching through the cluster of rescue personnel. Someone had wrapped him in a thermal blanket that made him look like a refugee from a disaster movie, but his grin was pure sunshine breaking through dark clouds.
"Told you we'd make it." He'd kept his ridiculous optimism intact despite everything.
"Never doubted it for a second."
Eric's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Liar."
Chief Callahan insisted that we be taken to Whistleport. He didn't want us alone for the night after the harrowing experience.
We climbed aboard the Coast Guard vessel. As it cut through choppy waves, Eric and I claimed a bench section along the starboard side.
"How's the foot?" I asked.
"Functional." He flexed it experimentally, wincing slightly. "Nothing that won't heal with proper respect and possibly some of Mrs. Knickerbocker's legendary chili."
Chief Callahan approached and settled onto the bench across from us. For several minutes, he didn't speak. When he finallybroke the silence, it was with the same measured voice of authority I remembered from that night so many years ago.
