Page 6 of Stalkers Anonymous

What happens next unfolds with the dreamlike, slow-motion quality that emergency situations often have—a moment of suspended time when I see everything with absolute clarity, while also being powerless to intervene.

Jason’s foot slips on the edge.

His arms windmill in that brief, frantic flail when a body finally clocks that gravity has stopped negotiating. White Dress Chick screams something that might be “Oh my God” but might also be a hashtag. I can’t tell because some way, somehow, she’s still holding the phone out in front of her.

Then he falls.

Not a freefall, but a scraping, rough descent, his body hitting multiple outcroppings on the way down. He disappears from view, and for a sickening second, there’s only the sound of repeated impacts echoing off the rocks.

Then silence.

“Jason?” White Dress Chick is screaming now, the phone finally forgotten in her hand. “Oh my god, Jason!”

The third person in their group—Sneaker Man—is just standing up there, mouth open, frozen in place.

Useless.

My body is moving before my mind registers the action. I veer off the main trail toward the base of the rock formation. My training kicks in, drowning out everything but what’s happening in front of me. As I get closer, I can see where Jason landed. He’s caught on the edge of a small ledge about fifteen feet above ground level, sprawled at an angle that makes my stomach drop.

And he’s not moving.

“I’m a doctor!” I call as I approach, already dropping my backpack to pull out my first aid kit.

Jason’s two friends are absolutely no help. White Dress Chick keeps shrieking his name into the void while Sneaker Man oscillates between yelling “Don’t move, dude!” and “Did you get that on video?” There’s no rope. No harness. Not so much as a roll of duct tape between them.

They came up here in expensive, flashy sneakers. To take pictures.

Jesus Christ. We’re all fucked if this is our future.

Other hikers are converging now, drawn by the commotion and the raw human instinct to rubberneck at the first sign of drama. I hear someone say they’re dialing 911. I glance around, wondering if anyone else is questioning whether or not the fallen man is dead, or if that’s just my morbid thoughts taking over.

Occupational hazard? Sure, let’s go with that.

“We need to get him down carefully. There’s no guarantee that ledge will hold,” I say, pointing toward the colossal crack in the rock supporting the entirety of Jason’s weight. “Does anyone here have climbing experience? I’m going to need help.”

“I do,” a deep voice rumbles behind me. I turn to see a tall white man with light-brown hair and the most striking hazel eyes. “I have military training and rappelling experience.”

“Good,” I say, making a split-second decision to trust that a complete stranger won’t fuck this up and send me tumbling down the side of a rock wall. “I need to check his condition before we move him. A spinal injury is a major concern with a fall like that.”

I’m saying all of this like I’m not still thinking about the high likelihood that Jason is already dead.

The man nods, already shrugging his daypack off his broad shoulders. “I have a basic climbing kit in my pack. I always carry it just in case.” He extracts equipment with lightning speed—carabiners, a compact harness, rope. All things I’ve used before and am somewhat familiar with.

“I’m Hailey,” I tell him as we move in tandem, preparing to make the ascent.

“Cole,” he responds, hands moving quickly to set up a makeshift rappelling system using a sturdy tree near the rock face. His movements are precise, confident. He isn’t a hobbyist, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s calm as hell while everyone else is standing around, gawking at the guy on the rock.

Okay, maybe I’m not the only one wondering if he’s dead.

Above us, White Dress Chick has progressed from screaming to ugly crying. Sneaker Man is yelling, “Babe! How do we get down? Babe!”

“Jason!” I call up toward the ledge. “Jason, can you hear me?” A faint groan carries down to us, and I feel instant relief. The entire crowd behind us lets out a breath at once. When it comes to head injuries, conscious—even partially—is always preferable to unconscious.

Sometimes, “not dead” is a bigger victory than people realize.

“Don’t move,” I shout. “Don’t try to sit up, just stay still. I’m coming up to you.”

Cole has the rappelling system ready in record time. “I’ll go up first,” he says. “That way I can offer assistance on the climb if you need it.”