She gripped the cold metal handrails—they vibrated as if alive—but her feet wouldn’t budge. The swing bridge taunted her. Cross me if you dare. She believed people should be able to control fear: simply put mind over body. But her body was betraying her. The medical term for fear of bridges was gephyrophobia, and this one-person-wide catwalk over the river gorge gave her the classic symptoms: racing heart, sweaty palms, trouble breathing.
The river was so far down and the wooden slats so flimsy-looking. A thunderous waterfall churned the water, blocking all sound, and the rain made everything blurry. She turned and squinted to see if the others were coming. She didn’t want her fear on display.
The trail was empty. She’d better hurry.
“One, two, THREE,” she yelled and rushed forward.
Halfway across, one of her hiking poles snagged the safety netting where the handrail sagged lowest, barely waist-high. She wobbled, jerked the pole free, and rushed across the remaining undulating planks. On the far platform, her victory shout was drowned by the waterfall.
She descended three steps to firm earth and stood still, regaining her composure. Composure was important for a medical professional. Composure and control. Slowly, ecstasy replaced fear; she was proof a person could overcome adversity. She’d done it her whole hungry life.
And look at that. The rain had stopped.
She walked across a clearing and stared into the deep woods where the trail picked up. She sensed watching eyes.
Nonsense.
She leaned her poles against a tree, slid her backpack off, and stuffed her raincoat into it. The waterfall, picture-perfect in a shaft of sunlight, cascaded in white membranes over three ledges. She retrieved her phone and walked to the cliff’s edge for a clear view. Who could she send a picture to? She thought of the young man she’d met at the Queenstown pub. His deep-brown eyes and baby-soft hair. His beard against her cheek, his hot breath in her ear. She’d lowered her guard. Let the pressure and drive and strife dissolve in his attention.
Had she given him her mobile number? No. She’d said the battery was dead. He wrote his number on a scrap and slipped it into her pocket. His fingers rustled about, probed, and played.
She would cut back on alcohol as soon as she got home.
Her boot dislodged a pebble. It rolled off the precipice, bounced, and disappeared in froth.
She’d take a selfie and send it to him when she had service. She turned her back to the cliff, leveled her chin downward, held the phone at a flattering angle, and tilted her head. Click. She’d add filters later. Satisfied, she faced the river again, soaking up sunshine. No one was crossing yet; she would still be the first to reach the lodge. She liked being first. Deserved it. She sensed movement behind her. A dark-winged force. Sensation stabbed into her back, pushing her into the air, her legs and arms flailing, the phone flying from her fingers.