Towering

breathing, rhythmically, all as one, the same as when they did their jobs. This spurred me to try harder, climb higher. I found a foothold, then another and another. I was doing this. I didn’t need a rope, didn’t need anyone. I was strong, the strength from my beautiful hair. I climbed higher, higher, more than halfway up now. I did not want to think of how I would get down. There would be time for that later.
    Then, suddenly, I heard a voice.
    “Rachel!”
    Mama’s voice.
    “Rachel!” Wyatt’s.
    Were they both there now, both below me? I looked down again, a mistake. I could not see them. The scent of the rhapsody seemed, if anything, even stronger up here, and my head swam with it. I could not see either Mama or Wyatt below. Yet, they cried for me.
    Aloud, I said, “Wyatt, where are you?”
    “Down here!” a voice said below me. Strangely, I heard it not in my head as I had in the car, or on the road, but in the room. Was I hallucinating? Was it the rhapsody? “Come down and help me! They’re going to kill me!”
    “Wyatt?”
    “No, Rachel.” This time, the voice was in my head like before. “Don’t come down. It’s a trick, a trick to get you . . .” Suddenly, the voice became muffled, and the other voice resumed.
    “Please, Rachel, come help me!”
    I didn’t know what to do. I decided to say it, very softly, to him alone. Meanwhile, my arms were tired, so tired. “Wyatt,” I whispered, “What should I do?”
    I heard his voice, something like his voice, but I couldn’t understand what he said.
    Then, the other voice, the Wyatt voice from the ground. “Aren’t you going to help me, Rachel?”
    “No,” the voice in my ear said. “Keep going!”
    I looked down, though I should not have. I should not have looked, not only because it made the world swim below me, my head spin, but also because I saw a man. He was one of the strong ones, one who had stood behind his master. Now he had broken free of the others and was coming toward me. He was climbing the wall to get me. He had a knife.
    “Rachel, help me!” Wyatt’s voice said.
    But I knew it was not Wyatt. I knew it was not Wyatt because, at that moment, I finally saw him. The workers had let him in, let him through. He seemed injured, one of his arms hanging strangely at his side. He started toward the man who was after me. He was going to climb the wall too. But how, with his arm so damaged?
    “Keep going!” his voice said in my ear. “Keep going, and don’t look back.”
    I obeyed. I knew I had to. The man was gaining on me. He was within inches of my long hair. He was slower than me. The drugs, perhaps, made him weak, but I was cornered, and he would eventually catch me. I saw Wyatt start to climb up behind him. Below, I heard a commotion as several others broke from the pack. They, too, started after Wyatt, but the others tried to fight them.
    I could look no more. I also could not hold on to the rocks anymore. I needed to move, to shift. My arms and shoulders ached. Still, I found another foothold and lifted myself up.
    “Where are you going, Rachel?” Wyatt’s voice said. “I need you to help me.”
    “No,” I yelled to whoever it was. “You are not Wyatt. Wyatt does not want my help.” My arms ached, but I took another step up.
    “That may be true,” the man said, “but if you don’t come down, we will kill him.”
    My heart was racing so fast it hurt. My hands ached, my head spun, and I wanted nothing more than to go down, But would they let us go, even if I came down? Impossible.
    As if hearing my thoughts, the man said, “If you come down, we will let you go. All of you. You only need to cut your hair.”
    In my head, I heard Wyatt’s voice. “No, Rachel, don’t do it! It’s a trick!”
    Then, a groan as he tried to climb higher.
    I did not look down to see if he had his knife poised at Wyatt’s neck. I did not know what he would do if I kept climbing, my aching hands being ripped by the rocks. But even as I did, I whispered, “Should I come down?”
    Wyatt’s real voice, the one in my head, said, “Rachel, don’t. Don’t you understand? We have to do this. I have to help you. If it is a choice between being a dead coward or a live hero . . .” His voice was stopped.
    I remembered the story he had told me, about his friend Tyler. It was true. He regretted doing nothing there. He would not wish to do nothing again.
    I looked down to see what had stopped him speaking.
    Despite his broken