“I hear that.”
“Nobody’d ever see my ass again.” Jerrod gritted his teeth. “I never been so cold, man.”
“Think Stu would’ve got his shit together with his share?”
“I think he’d have just drunk himself to death faster, and with better booze. Damn, man, this is getting worse and worse.”
Isaiah flicked his cigarette away. He stood up, peered over the ledge, staring down into roiling snow and bottomless dark.
“How’s it look?” Jerrod asked.
“Steep as shit. Can’t even tell how much farther down it goes.”
“We got a situation here.”
“That we do, brother.”
“You aren’t hurt bad, are you?”
“Just my head and my pride, but they hurt like a motherfucker.”
“You foresee any way of getting me out of here?”
Isaiah sat down, put his hand on Jerrod’s shoulder, shook his head.
Jerrod nodded. “Afraid you might say that.”
“Just don’t know how we’d explain our way out of this one, partner.”
“I’m sorry. I fucked that jump up.” Jerrod wiped his eyes. “You ain’t gotta apologize for shit.” A catch in Isaiah’s voice, too.
Jerrod said, “Look, if it’s gotta be this way, I can’t just sit up here by myself, wait to freeze to death. Not in this kind of pain. You know what I’m saying?”
“I feel you.”
“There’s no other way? You sure?”
“I don’t see it.” Isaiah pursed his lips together and cocked his head, his brow furrowing up as his eyes welled. “Serving with you, man,” he said.
“I know. I know. Same here. Let’s just get this the fuck over with, huh?” Isaiah took up his machine pistol and racked the slide. His eyes burned. He couldn’t see, had to wait a moment, letting them clear, not wanting to fuck any part of this up.
“You wanna pray or something, Jerrod?”
“Wouldn’t know what the fuck to say. Haven’t prayed a day out of my whole life. God ain’t a fool if He’s up there, and I don’t wanna insult the Man, particularly now.”
“Anything you want me to take care of when I get out of here? Anybody you want me to go see, let ’em know, give ’em a message or—”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know. Your parents.” He smiled. “Your harem of bitches.”
“Nah. Nobody’ll notice.”
“You ready, then?”
Jerrod drew in a deep breath, looked all around at the rock, the snow, the darkness, the cliffs, taking heed of this cold ledge where he was going to die. “Yeah.”
“Love you, brother. Never said that to a—”
“You, too, man. You, too. Family, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the suspense is killing me, so . . .” Jerrod turned away. He stared at the tip of his boot, thought how pretty the snow was falling on it, and what a strange last thought this was.
Isaiah raised the machine pistol, positioned the barrel a few inches from the back of Jerrod’s head. He calmed himself, held the red dot steady.
Jerrod slumped over into the snow.
Isaiah fired another Kool, sat for a while, smoking, listening to the wind, watching snow pile up on the rock, on Jerrod. For the moment, it melted on his friend’s warm face.
At length, Isaiah stood up. But he felt empty, something unfinished. He had a notepad in his backpack, and he pulled it out and found a pencil, sat hunched over the paper, shielding it from the snow. He scribbled down five words, tore out the sheet of paper, and slipped it into the pocket of Jerrod’s parka.
Isaiah gathered up his things, then followed the ledge for thirty feet until it slimmed out into nothing. As he began the slow and treacherous descent into the canyon, he kept thinking of what he’d written for his friend, wished it could have been more, repeating Jerrod’s epitaph in his head like a plain-song.
