Light spasmed on the lake as the boys below churned it with their limbs and laughed, loud and urgent. It was the middle of August. Looking down from the cliff's edge, the surface of the water seemed an impossible distance away. 

 

Tommy felt the hot sun on his cheeks and his fathers eyes on his back and a droplet of not-quite-cold tracing a slow path down his chest. He told his feet to move forward, told his arms to propel him into one great big fantastic leap, but the gap between thinking and moving proved as stubborn as his thudding heart. 

 

Halfway down, a crooked branch stuck menacingly out of the rocks. What was it, fifteen, maybe twenty feet? Looked more like thirty. Certainly higher now than it had been last summer. He'd jumped last summer. He remembered the feeling of the water but not the fear. 

 

Tommy held his arms in close and his legs straight, practicing his streamline. He closed his eyes and imagined jumping. He tried to think of the tremendous splash but all he could picture was the crooked stick. 

 

"Come on Tom, it's getting late." 

 

His dad never jumped. Not this summer and not last summer either. He didn't even swim on the hottest of the hot days, when the sun burned low and slow and cold was just a memory of a memory—sweet relief to be sought out at the bottom of the lake. 

 

The other boys were clamoring up the sloped rocks now, making quick work of the uphill trek. The ones who were older and had learned to hide their fear a little better. They were swinging their arms and panting and talking seriously about the oak tree and how Jack meant to climb to the highest branch—and think of how far he could see from up there, probably farther than anyone, even Dad. 

 

Tommy told himself he would jump before they got all the way up, while no one was looking. He thought about the water and how deep he would go—like a spear. He'd go so deep that the others would wonder if he'd ever come back up. He thought about the ride back and the smell of Dad's pickup and how he would drip all over the seat. He thought about the seat belt digging into his bare shoulder.

 

"Tom, let's go. I'm serious. Now or never." 

 

Tommy didn't look over his shoulder. He stood as still as possible—so still that he could hear the woosh of blood through his veins and feel each imperceptible shift of his feet against the rock as his body maintained balance. Heel to sole, sole to heel. He stood still until he couldn't take it anymore. 

 

It was the middle of August, and the sun was creeping closer and closer to the tree-lined horizon opposite the cliff. It was big and bright and almost touching the trees. Tommy thought about the sun touching the trees and then he thought about the trees catching on fire. He thought about how close the sun was and how far away the water was and suddenly he thought about how it was August and summer was ending.  

 

In the time it took for his feet to leave the cliff and land on the surface of the waiting lake, Tommy didn't think about his dad's voice, or Jack's laughter, or even that cruel, crooked stick. He thought about the months of the year filtering like fine sand through an hourglass. Today was one white hot grain among many. 

 

Time hit Tommy like a gust of cold wind on his face. Every summer before this one had lasted forever. But now, midair, as the world darkened and the water loomed large beneath him, Tommy looked up and saw the ticking of the clock.