Jonah jumps first. He’s out of my passenger seat before I stop the car, tearing off his Yuengling Lager T-shirt. The hottest, driest of summers, he’d cut his shirt sleeves and several inches from the bottom so the world could enjoy the biceps and abs he earned in our football team’s weight room. He sprints across the half-full parking lot, weaves between shaded picnic tables, drops his tattered shirt. He leaps out over the gorge. Shouting, windmilling arms, running legs.

We follow.

I try not to hesitate at the edge. In my periphery Greg and Patrick run into the air too, limbs flailing. The fall takes so long. Above us the girls shriek.

My feet slap the hard water, and I sink into murky darkness. Bubbles rush and I stretch my toes in search of bottom until my lungs can no longer hold. I frog-kick to the surface. Pieces of sunlight shine through trees at the top of the gray granite rising above me. The relief of the inhale and my friends’ sleek heads popping up around me are worth the bruises that will darken the soles of my feet. Jonah yells for the girls to jump; they fidget on the edge, arms wrapped around themselves. One finally drops, splashes, and when she surfaces she points to Jonah, who swims toward the waterfall. He scrambles up its rocky ledge.

Shade from pines on the overhanging cliff throws shadows onto water that spills down rocks and rolls over itself at the base of the falls. Jonah climbs higher and muscles himself to standing, his bare toes clinging to wet rock. Water shines on his chest.

“Kids, don’t try this at home!” Sunlight dapples his face. He stretches his arms out into a V, grins at our rapt attention, and dives.

Patrick and Greg splash each other on their way to a wide rock and hoist themselves up. They recline in the sun, feet dangling over the edge.

Treading water, I wait for Jonah and squint into the white churn at the base of the falls. Where he should be. I swim until my feet scrape rock. Standing, the water doesn’t reach my waist.

Between two boulders Jonah bobs up, arms flopping in the waves. Blood streams over his forehead, the side of his face.

I grab under his armpits and, with my back, shield his broken face from the spray.

“Call 911!”

“Is he dead?”

“Don’t move him!”

I stare down at his slack mouth, bloodied eyes, and crushed nose. He doesn’t shove me away. He doesn’t stand, point a finger, and say, “Diving under the influence is a punishable offense.”

I pull him through shallow water between rocks and logs, drag his limp, heavy body onto the gravel beach. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t open his eyes.

The girl who jumped is a lifeguard. She crouches on pebbles, her ear to Jonah’s mouth. She nods and holds her palm above his chest. Rising and falling. Barely. I reach out to wipe away the frothy pink from his dusky lips but she grabs my hand. “You can’t touch him.”

We wait for him to snort, wheeze, and say, “You should see your faces.”

We huddle around him, demand that he keep breathing. The wet gurgle in his throat grows loud, then nearly silent. Greg, Patrick, and the girls shift their gaze to me.

Finally, an ambulance siren. The EMTs take their time hiking down the trail alongside the falls. Two sweaty, serious men order us out of their way and slide a board under Jonah. They strap him in, wrap his neck and head without wiping away his blood. They lift him and start back up the trail.

I stay close and try another play. “Hey, man. Enough. Your parents will get charged for the ambulance.”

At the top of the trail, strangers blitz me with questions I can’t answer. The girls cry. Greg and Patrick drag behind, yards of space separating them. I cross the grass, my bare feet grateful for soft ground. Jonah’s shirt is a white puddle in green. I snap it up and rush into the ambulance.

Inside, the paramedics attempt to block me, but I kneel beside Jonah and they slam the doors. They shout, “Open your eyes, Jonah. Move your fingers. Your toes. Anything.”

Please. My Hail Mary for him to save the game. We both know I’m only his backup.

THE END