Chapter 4.

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I refused to go skydiving. Even after Dion nearly ripped my head off, and then warned me he'd kick my ass if I wasn't here when he landed. Even though I am now being buffeted by the wind tearing around the airport hangars, I'm glad I'm still on the ground and not some rickety plane flown by someone who might disappear at any time. There are better ways to die. (Trust me; I know.)

Next to me, behind the low fence bordering the airport runway, an old man is squinting at the sky. He arrived in the company of a fortyish man – his son, he just told me. "Do you see anything yet?"

I shake my head. The hum of the Cessna is louder now, piercing the silence like an obnoxious tourist in a speedboat, but the sky is so blue I can barely distinguish anything. And then, suddenly, sunlight flashes on metal, and I point: there, right behind us.

"I see them," the old man nods.

I follow the plane with my gaze when it flies overhead. I don't see the actual jump, but I do spot a few people freefalling in the air, so long that a nameless feeling settles in my stomach and I'm sure they will get squashed on the ground – and then, to my relief, a parachute unfolds, a red one. It spins around a little and then starts floating down slowly. To the right, a yellow-and-white parachute opens, and I know it's Dion's. Underneath it, a blue one appears. I wait for more, but they don't come, and I can't see the jumpers anymore, either.

"There should be a green one," the old man next to me says. "Do you see it anywhere?"

I shake my head.

"Michael said he had a green one."

And then, behind us, with a dull thud, a backpack lands on the concrete. And then in front of us a few more, a bit further away every time, along the route of the small plane, like hollow grenades.




Then it stops.

Before us, in a not entirely straight line, lies what is left of the other five people on Dion's flight. 

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