Pan didn’t much want to look over the precipice–not with the whipping wind at her back and the thousand-or-so foot drop at her front. The ground underfoot was rocky and uneven. Clouds flitted by, close enough to touch, and her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and it didn’t help. The corner of her forehead itched, and she would’ve scratched it were it not for Kaleson’s contraption.

His wingsuit, of bronze and silver alloys, of interconnected tubes and puffing tufts of gas and, of course, of two feathered, long wings that covered and tickled her from one set of fingers to the other, was a new invention, and not particularly comfortable. The black mesh suit she wore helped with some of the scraping and scratching and scorching, but only so much, and the fact that donning it meant she was about to leap off a cliff really did take away from some of the allure of good craftsmanship.

“Well?” Kaleson asked. He was sitting on a nearby stone, his glasses askew, a notebook and pen in hand. “How does it feel?”

Pan forced a smile. “Fits like a glove. Feels like I could fly forever.”

Kaleson nodded, and scribbled something down. “Good, good. Take care that you don’t. Fly forever, I mean. Because you can’t.” He paused, then added, “you’ll fall after seven minutes, fourteen seconds. So, get back before then, or you’ll… you know… die.” He gave an apologetic shrug and continued his scribbling.

Pan’s eye twitched, but she said nothing. If she started asking more questions, her nerves would become too frayed to jump. And with all the variables at play—the wind and the height and the chill that stung her cheeks—Kaleson likely wouldn’t have any answers. They’d tested the suit rigorously for the last few weeks, sure, but those were in controlled environments. And they weren’t always successful, as the bruises and welts littered across Pan’s body could attest to.

No. The only way to learn whether or not the wingsuit could handle high altitudes… was to jump.

Pan inhaled and held her breath, like her mother taught her to do. She held and held, and just before her chest could protest, she released, slowly, slowly, letting the air seep out of her as though water welling from the earth.

She believed in Kaleson. She believed in his vision for the future–a utopia for man. The first step was the most impactful, and all the more so when it was off the edge of a cliff. Glancing back at the inventor, Pan was almost surprised to find him watching her, his face unreadable.

“Seven minutes, fourteen seconds,” he repeated. His voice sounded worried.

Wait.

Worried?

Him?

The realization gave her an inexplicable sort of strength, and Pan, steeling her nerves with one final huff, matched Kaleson’s gaze and gave him a wink.

“I want a raise after this,” she said. And then she leaped off, through the clouds, and began her plummet to the earth below.