Something in my face must tip her off, because she turns around. Sees her brother clinging to the rocks. Above him, on the lip of the cliff, Jay kneels, his arm extended, speaking words we can’t hear.

“That Gatsby is egging him on!” screeches Myrtle. “He’s going to get my brother killed! George Wilson, you get down from there this instant!”

Her shrill tone spears the humid quiet of the forest, slicing through the rush of the water.

George turns his head to look at her.

Misses a foothold.

Claws at the slick rock.

He bucks, flailing in panic, and peels away from the cliffside, his body arched like a falling angel.

I’m moving, yelling—bounding across the rocks to the bank—but it’s already too late, because the boy’s keening shriek ends with a wet, sick thud, a crack, and the hollow drumlike bounce of his skull off rock.

George lies several feet from me, his neck at a strange angle. His blue eyes mirror the sky, unblinking.

Myrtle screams, and I want to scream too, but her screams are sucking away all the air—I can barely inhale enough to stay clearheaded.

This isn’t happening. No. It’s just…not happing. Not possible. We’re on a hike, for fun. It’s supposed to end in a picnic, not like this, not with a pale-haired boy cracked and broken at my feet, leaking his life into the dark seams of the rocks.

Slowly, dizzily, I force myself to approach George and press two fingers to his throat. I try not to think about the odd angle of his head, and the crimson lake spreading from the back of his skull.

No pulse.

Mechanically I lift my phone and dial the three numbers I’ve never before had to dial. I’m not here anymore—I’ve withdrawn deep into myself, where my raging emotions can’t affect anyone else. Autopilot Daisy is in charge. She answers the emergency operator’s questions and explains what happened.

Jay is somehow at the foot of the cliff again, stammering, “I can fix this. I’ll fix it,” and pressing his wrist to George’s mouth—to see if he’s breathing, maybe? Autopilot Daisy watches Jordan hugging Myrtle, holding her together, watches the other members of our group arrive and scream or swear as they realize what happened.

Jay turns, his forearms smeared in blood, his eyes desperate. He says to Jordan, “It’s not working. He’s already gone.” Autopilot Daisy was too busy talking to the 911 people to see what he was doing. Trying CPR, maybe?

The next hour is sticky with sweat and blood and endless waiting. Then come the professionals with questions and reproachful looks. As if we forced George to climb that cliff. As if we caused his death. Maybe we did. Myrtle keeps screaming at Jay, shrieking that climbing the cliff was his idea, that he egged her brother on. None of that is true, but autopilot Daisy is barely keeping herself calm and doesn’t have the energy to defend Jay.

I don’t remember who takes me home, only that Jay grips my upper arm briefly before I get into the car. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and then he is whirled away, hustled aside by two police officers. One of them is Officer Sheetal, the woman who stopped him for speeding earlier.

When I walk into my house, my parents are already there, white-faced. They wrap me in two sets of reassuring arms, and the inner Daisy trembles with grief, with relief, but autopilot Daisy is still firmly in charge, and she says stonily, “I want to take a shower.”

In the shower I allow my two selves to merge again, until I’m no longer inside Daisy and outside Daisy, but one whole broken Daisy who can finally cry.

You should follow your instincts and be brave. Show everyone what you can do.

Why didn’t I pay more attention to what he was saying? Why didn’t I use my words more carefully? Why didn’t I react faster to stop him?

You should follow your instincts.

Be brave.

Show everyone what you can do.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

It’s my fault.

Why can’t I rewind, reset, respawn?

Show everyone what you can do.

I did this.

My voice, my power.

What comes with power? Not responsibility. No.

With power comes a spine arching in midair, and a cracked skull leaking blood onto stone.

11

When Jay texts me the next day, I tell him I need time. A few days.

I understand, he replies. But you have to know—you’re not to blame for this. I heard everything the two of you said. It’s not your fault he took it the wrong way.

He heard everything we said? But he was so far up the cliff already, and George and I were talking quietly. There’s no way he could have heard. He’s just trying to make me feel better.

I text back a single word. Thanks.

For a handful of days, I bury myself in YouTube videos and anime shows, avoiding TikTok because it reminds me of Jordan and cliff climbing and death. She texts me too—sad, regretful texts, but she doesn’t feel George’s death the way I do. To her he was a dumb kid who shouldn’t have followed them. Not that she thought he deserved to die. But Jordan could be harsh sometimes, and though she doesn’t reference Darwin’s law, its echo hovers in the spaces between her texts.

The survival of the fittest.

I suppose I’m one of the fittest. For now. Can someone stop being one of the fittest? Can you be worthy to live one day and not worthy the next?

From what I’ve seen of the world and the people in it, a lot of folks survive who aren’t the fittest or worthiest.

None of us are invited to George’s funeral. I didn’t expect to be, didn’t want to go. I’d just met the guy. If only Myrtle hadn’t brought him along that day. Does she blame herself, now that she’s had space and time to think? I hope not. I hope she realizes that blaming Jay is ridiculous, too. I hope she gets some grief counseling.

On the morning of the fourth day, Jay sends me another text, pleading to see me, with a sad emoji and a GIF of some little anime critter with sparkly begging eyes, and I can’t help giving in. I need to talk to him anyway about what happened when I asked him to climb the cliff. I need to know why he felt compelled to do it, even if I already suspect the answer. Even if I don’t really want to know.

Something I’ve always had in me is growing stronger, twining through my insides like a golden cord, lacing through my throat and lungs and turning them into terrible instruments that can play on other people. For some reason, those instruments manipulate Cody and Jay more strongly than anyone else, and I need to understand why.

My dad is off on a short business trip, and my mom is working from home because she might be coming down with a cold, but I know it’s really to keep an eye on me. My parents are afraid I’m going to slip back into my postgraduation, post-Tom depressive phase.

I pause in the kitchen doorway and watch my mother for a minute as she hunches over her laptop. The two little dents between her eyebrows drive deeper every year. I wish I could smooth them out with my fingers and keep them from coming back. When our lives changed and we suddenly had more money than we could use, we all felt delighted, relaxed, freed from the financial stress we’d lived with all our lives.

And then the demands and responsibilities started mounting higher for both my parents. More income, more taxes, more complications and bills and debts, more projects to complete, deadlines to meet, pay raises and promotions to strive for.

Are we really better off now?