Fall With Me

off to get their daypacks. “Where are we hiking?”
    “We’re going to drive up to Pacifica and hike Sweeney Ridge.”
    I grin. “And are you extending the invitation because you’re hoping to push me off the ridge once we make it to the top?”
    She gives me a patient smile. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you bring it up . . .” Her gaze goes to the retreating backs of the campers as they head down the hill toward their cabins. “I would have full-on mutiny on my hands if I did that. Those kids sure do like you.”
    I pull a pack of gum from my pocket and take a piece out, then offer one to her. She pauses but then takes it. “It’s because I carry this around with me,” I say, sliding the gum back into my pocket.
    She unwraps her piece of gum and puts it in her mouth. “I could carry around all the gum in the world and they wouldn’t adore me half as much as they do you.”
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Without really thinking about it, I sling my arm around her shoulders. She doesn’t pull away, though, or try to shrug me off. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”
     

Chapter 16: Jill
     
    Sweeney Ridge is the longest hike we take with the campers, and it’s one of my favorite places. If it’s a clear day, as it is today, some of the views you get of the Bay Area are absolutely stunning. Dad and I used to come here a lot, and as we pull into the parking area, it’s hard not to think about him and wish that he were here, too. But the kids are all excited, especially to see the abandoned Nike Missile Base covered in all its graffitied glory.
    We take the Mori Ridge and Baquiano Loop, which is a seven-mile loop with about a 1400-foot elevation gain. It will be a challenge for some of the campers, but a lot of the trail is actually paved, and I’m hopeful they’ll all hang in there and be able to see the 360 degree view of the Bay.
    Some of the campers have stayed behind to go canoeing with Lorrie, Allison, and Karen, so I lead the small group and Griffin brings up the rear. Behind me, I can hear Simon and Heather talking, giggling. I glance over my shoulder and they’re not quite holding hands, but they’re close enough to.
    We come to an area of unpaved trail where there is a line of flagstones that you can walk across like lily pads. Dad and I used to make a game of it—who could cross all the stones without falling off, or, as I got older and more coordinated, who could hop across the stones, or skip across them.
    That’s what I’m thinking about as I step on the first one, and then Simon starts to say something and I turn, right as I’m about to step onto another rock. I turn my head only slightly, just so my ear is a little closer, but it throws me off balance and I slip. There’s the pain as my ankle twists awkwardly, which is quickly eclipsed by the feeling of the back of my head slamming into the rock I was just standing on.
    I lie there for a moment, dust rising up around me. A few of the campers have gathered around and their faces take up my entire line of vision, which is slowly draining of color.
    “Jill? Are you okay?”
    I blink. The pain in my head is not enormous, but it’s insistent and I know that trying to sit up—which I very much want to do—would not be a good idea. The colors continue to bleed away, until it looks like we’ve been transported back in time and are in a black and white movie.
    “How odd,” I say, though my voice is barely a whisper.
    “Go get help!” someone yells, and someone yells something back, and both their voices sound very far away. There is a sensation of falling, of dropping away, and suddenly, all I can see is a very narrow tunnel of sky. It would be easy enough to resist, I think, but it also, in a strange way, feels good, so instead of fighting it, I give in to the sense of falling, I let go, curious to see where I’ll land.
     
    Nowhere, apparently, because it feels like only a second has passed when I reopen my eyes. Color has returned, though the colors seem harsh and a little too sharp. Griffin is there now too, leaning over me.
    “I’m okay,” I say, trying to brush his arm off of me. Sitting up now is painful but possible, but as I start to, he puts his hand on my shoulder and holds me down.
    “You shouldn’t get up yet,” he says. “You just knocked yourself out. You might have a concussion.”
    “I’m fine,” I tell him. “I don’t have a concussion. How long was I out