Drop Zone 
 

She’s been there for a while. I couldn’t say exactly how long, but long enough to become part of the landscape, still, bony, all nerves. A helicopter passes overhead; it’s the sixth person to die on my mountains since Spring began. They slip without warning, even when they’re experienced, on a slick rock, on wet leaves, and then they fall about one hundred and seventy-six meters. Now a small, shriveled man with narrow eyes holds out a microphone to her, as if it were some kind of peace offering. Then he leans over me and I feel his fingers brush against my hair; I’ve never allowed him that kind of familiarity, it’s rude. He takes a piece of pink chewing gum out of his mouth and works it into the knots in my hair. I stay there, my curls scented. She’s now screaming into the cables, and I remain still.