Tallie saw him drop his backpack and climb over the metal railing, the bridge. The gray Ohio River below them, a swift-rippling ribbon. She was driving slowly because of the rain, the crepuscular light. She didn’t give herself time to think. Pulled over, lowered the passenger-side window, and said hey.

Hey!

Hey!

The heys increased in frequency, volume. To her left, the blur of traffic. She punched her hazards, climbed over the armrest and out of her car, leaving the passenger door peeled open.

“Hey! I see you! You don’t know me, but I care about you! Don’t jump!” she said, loud enough for him to hear, but she didn’t want to startle him, either. The cars and trucks were loud, the rain was loud, the sky was loud, the bridge was loud—all those sounds echoing off it, rattling down and back up. The world was so loud.

He turned slightly, his face wet with rain.

“Hi. I’m Tallie,” she said. “I don’t want you to do this. Is there somewhere I can take you instead? And I could take your backpack. What’s your name?” She was reluctant to touch the backpack. It was dark green and dirty. She reached for it.

“Don’t touch it,” he said softly. Far too softly for someone who was about to jump to his death. Why bother speaking softly when death is slipping its hand in your pocket?