My fingers groped for something capable of supporting me, until they brushed a bumpy knob: fossilized crinoid stems. The limestone here teemed with them. I pushed; it held. I flexed my torso to shift balance and looked for a way up.

The moment we'd cleared the tree line and saw most of the cliff still looming above, our dinnertime whim had become an ordeal. Now I hoped it wouldn't become a hushed campfire story. Descent at this point would be suicidal; continuing, merely insane. Ten feet down, Pete awaited my next move. If I slipped, we'd both hit the scree below, joining in extinction the fossil fragments scattered there. As the climb was his idea, this struck me as fair.

The other three canoeists — Audrey was a no-show — had declined to share our bare-handed stupidity, remaining on the gravel bar by the Current. They could see us now, I was sure. I didn't check, turning my gaze upwards instead. A ledge seemed within reach. Below, a hawk circled and scoffed.

"There's a ledge," I said.

"Go for it," Pete grunted. Heck of a first weekend ashore for him. Was he thinking of Audrey? Wishing she were here to see his moment of adolescent glory, or to weep at his demise? Yesterday, in invertebrate paleontology, her demurral had puzzled me: she'd often said she eagerly awaited his discharge, so they'd have time together.

My face against the rock, I kissed crinoid as I extended my hand. The ledge was about six inches deep. I lifted myself and slid my forearm onto it. Next came the tricky part, swinging a foot up. I tensed my upper body and kicked.

Audrey had missed Pete. She'd fallen for him hard. In his absence, she felt alone, empty. She couldn't wait for him to come home. Ultimately, she hadn't.

As I rolled my body onto the ledge, it occurred to me Audrey had a reason for not being here, with us, after all. It also occurred to me the ledge was an inch narrower than I'd thought. I started to rock back towards the void. Did Pete notice?

Time unspooled: Audrey, urging me on; Audrey's mother, her face hopeful; physics, geology, chemistry lectures; endless drawers of fossils and index cards, my work-study job; friends from high school washed away in memory...

You could keep watching the movie, or you could grab that root.

I grabbed. There was a tree root, one I noticed only now. No time to test it — I held on and levered my weight back onto the ledge. The root stayed put. I breathed for a while, motionless, warm sand stuck to my cheek, and then stood. More roots. We were just below the lip. I climbed.

Later, surrounded by snoring, I stared at the stars. Pete would spend the rest of spring break with Audrey, maybe longer, while I cataloged crinoids in the basement of Wilson Hall. I didn't mind. I only wondered if I believed in guardian angels, and if so, whose.

Jeff Howe hopes he'll adjust someday to writing about himself in the third person. In the meantime, he continues to live and write near St. Louis, Missouri, with his family.