It's a beautiful sight and it takes my breath away. Over the jagged line of uniform rooftops, a valley of trees, and a strip of houses miles away, a magnificent expanse of sky towers its heavy brow. The morning sun breaks through the clouds and, in that pocket of pink, an enormous mountain glistens with snow, pristinely white in its splendor. Multiple ridges give it a rough yet peaceful appearance, its sheer vastness making me feel small and unimportant. I wonder how many people made it to the top and decided they rule the very nature, when their hands slipped off the rock and they fell into the abyss, collapsing back into organic matter, the mountain unperturbed, looking down from its height, sending a blizzard as a way of goodbye.

"Mount Rainier," we say at the same time.

"You know how to get there?" I say into his ear, standing up on the pegs.

"Yep. Ought to go out in style, right? Ever flew off a stratovolcano?" He falls into his comical speak, shouting over the racket of the motor.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our performance, the one and only show. Against a backdrop of glacial ice, with Rainier Valley for the stage! Today! Don't miss it! There will be no reruns! We will make sure to donate all proceeds to future suicide victims, of which, let me assure you, there will be many!"

"That's not funny!" I interrupt him.

"Says who?"

I pinch him lightly.

"Oww!" he cries.

The topic dies and we continue speeding along mostly empty streets. A minute or two later I pick up the distant wail of the police siren again.

"Cops!" I yell. "A few miles behind!"

"Can you shroud us in fog or something?" Hunter yells back, gunning the bike and running a red light to the honk of a lonely car standing at the intersection.

"Ahead of you, punk, already planned!" I lie. Well, just a little bit, to appear superior, because I still feel wounded by his stupid joke.

A blue shimmer of atmosphere rushes part us as rolling blankets of fog creep up the sides of the road. Hunter turns and we fly onto a narrow back road hidden in the woods, full of twists and turns to enjoy one last time.

Yellowing trees frame our flight with their canopies of burnt foliage on top of tufts of green as if their gigantic, hairy heads have been dipped in fire. The damp smell of fallen leaves mixes with the crispness of fall, fresh and chilly on the touch. An obnoxious mechanical blaring is on our tail, together with helicopter blades whooping above us. Another minute and they'll see us.

I tilt my head up and open into a song, the one I sang to Hunter, one of my Siren Suicides favorites.

"There you are,

Without me you cry.

I surround you,

Love me or I die."

Thick mist rolls off my skin and licks us under a cotton candy blanket of fog. Its edges touch the ground on all sides except in front, leaving a wide enough gap between the sky and the road for Hunter to see where we're going. I find it easy to manipulate the moisture to my design while keeping it warm at the same time, wondering if one day I can master a cloud castle—then realizing that there won't be a one day. Today is all I have.

"I adore you,

See me or I fly."

All other noises hush. I listen for the police. Their annoying ululating has diminished. Hunter gives me a thumbs up with his left hand before gripping the clutch handle again.

"Can you hold my heart?

Can you hold my soul?

I can't be apart."

The words ring so true that I'm ready for our fall, watching this spectacular ride through a cloud of my own creation, singing for what feels like hours, until my throat turns hoarse and I can't sing anymore. I close my mouth and press my cheek against Hunter's back, letting myself get lost in the scenery. Ghosts of trees appear out of nowhere and are swallowed behind us into oblivion, their branches grinning toothless smiles along this ribbon of road. Slowly, the fog recedes to greenery on our left and a huge flat lake on our right. The road comes up to the base of the mountain after which it disappears around the bend into nothing. The mountain itself is not visible behind the thick layer of forest.

My left ear picks up Hunter's rapid heartbeat and breathing; with my right, I concentrate on listening into the distance behind us. Apart from a few souls and a few passing cars, there is nothing. I perk up and stand on the pegs again. At the same time, Hunter slows down and stops on the side of the road.

In front of us towers a wooden park entrance, a twenty feet high structure of two cut off tree trunks on each side and six more on top of them forming a roof. The actual gate is fastened to each front pole and is currently open. Two metal chains hug the middle top beam and hold up a wooden board that reads, MT. RAINIER NATIONAL PARK. Up ahead are wooden cabins with windows and a flag in the middle of the road. In fact, the road parts in two around the middle cabin. It's an entrance station building where you're supposed to stop and buy a park pass.

"We've lost them. The cops," I say, as I get off the bike and stretch out my legs.

"No, you lost them. Thank you." He turns and takes my face into his hands, the bike idling softly and radiating heat between us.

"Ah, it's nothing. How are we going to get past that?" I point ahead. "I have no cash on me. Do you?"

"No cash needed, baby. We will gun it, as always."

"Right," I say, avoiding his intense gaze and looking up. Beyond the entrance station, the base of the mountain is covered in dense vegetation, the road zigzagging up and out of sight, vertical rock on its right side, a void on its left.

"I've never been here before," I say. "What's it called? I mean, what part of Mount Rainier are we going up?"

"Paradise," Hunter says.

"Seriously? It's called, Paradise?"

"Absolutely and irresistibly correct. Paradise Ridge. I've been here before, err...contemplating. There is this nice drop-off about—" He shifts closer to me so that he can intercept my gaze. "What's wrong?"

I sigh. "Nothing."

Hunter gives me a quick peck on the nose. "I don't believe you. Talk to me."

I try to make out the mountain's peak in the clouds, golden in the sun. "Do you really want to know?"

We lock eyes, transfixed by what we're about to do, pressed by its weight and lifted to the highs of existence at the same time.

"I do. I really do," Hunter urges me on.

My familiar inability to speak my mind at important moments, especially when emotionally overwhelmed, kicks in. Unable to explain the turmoil of my suddenly emotional state, all I can say is, "Can't you guess?"

"I think I know. This is my bridge, in a way, and to you it must feel like—"

"No. No, that's not what I mean."

"What do you mean then?" His eyebrows fly up.

"You never told me why you want to kill yourself. I told you, but you never told me. And I...I want to know." I fall quiet, biting my lower lip.

Hunter looks away. He appears to study a nearby bush sprinkled with bursts of yellow salmonberries.

"That week, when my father left, I thought I could fix it." His eyes brim with tears and he flaps his hand at them, pressing his lips together so that the next words come out suppressed as if they were never meant to be heard by anyone.

"I was stupid and arrogant, thought I could fix anything, but then I couldn't. There is no magic glue for family, you know, no magic pill for cancer. I felt so useless, just wanted to lie down and die..."

"And you decided you couldn't hold the weight anymore, is that right? It was too painful to bear," I quietly chime in.

"Yeah. You're stealing my words." He stretches his lips into a hint of a smile, still studying the bush.

I simply hold his hand.

"Then I got angry. I picked myself up and decided to fight no matter what. We had no money for medical insurance, so I went out and got a job, a real paying job." He steals a glance at me. "Your dad, you know, helping him with the whole siren hunting thing. It seemed very far-fetched when he explained it to me, but I didn't care. I'd do anything for cash. Suddenly, I could afford to buy meds for my mom." There are tears in his voice.

"It was fake though, a false hope. It only pushed back what I knew would happen all along. She doesn't even recognize me anymore, has to ask my name every day. So what's the point? What is the fucking point of living?"

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me. I let him.

"At least you have a mom," I whisper.

He falls silent, as if I slapped him on the face.

"At least you have a dad."

Touché. A surge of hate fills my throat.

"You call that a dad?" I yank my hand out of his to curl it into a fist. "That control freak, that sicko woman-hating asshole creep?" I stop to catch my breath, tears spilling down my cheeks in two angry lines.

He cradles my face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. How can I make you feel better? What can I do?" His eyes widen and all I see is the sky reflected in the two blue pools of his irises, pulsing with care. It fills me with a brilliant pain that's borderline pleasure and hunger, rearing its ugly head to hear Hunter's burning soul—an off-key shuffling of slippers on the floor, clanking dishes as the dinner table is set, and birds chirping, all against the background of Vivaldi's Summer season.

It takes an enormous amount of will power not to lunge and tear him apart. My chest lights on fire and threatens to burn me alive from the inside. I hug myself fiercely, hoping it will help.

"Let's just do it," I whisper through tight lips, hoping against all hope that, by the sheer force of my yelling, I will explode and finally stop existing; images of Hunter smashing on the rocks into a million pieces pollutes my head.

"You okay?" Hunter asks.

I take a deep breath and exhale the pain, numb. "Have you ever given someone a ride of a lifetime?"

We exchange a smile.

"What's a ride of a lifetime?" he asks innocently.

"You know, the killer kind," I say, mirroring his tone.

"Oh, how curious. Nope, I never have."

"Well, can I be the first? Pretty please?" I play coy.

"You? Of course. Always. And forever."

I lean in and he's kissing me. Desperate to feel all of it, I press hard. Lips, tongue, my whole face. We gobble each other up. There is no room for breath, no room for thought, only this.

His hands grip my hair, I ball up the collar of his clammy shirt into fists, watching clouds drift by, revealing blue sky. Blue is my favorite color. Three is my favorite number. It takes only one minute to fall down ten thousand feet. I close my eyes, trying to imagine what our bodies will sound like, flying down the mountainside, crashing through pines and onto the rocks. I decide that I will see Hunter through his fall, to make sure he dies peacefully, and then I will wail over his dead body and burst into nothing.

Pulling against desire, as if against a strong magnetic force, we break apart and reach for a breath at the same time.

"It's time," Hunter says.

"How long to the top?"

"Well, it's not exactly the top. It's a drop-off from one of the ridges. One of the observation points. Twenty minutes at the most."

"Oh, right," I say, remembering now that Hunter mentioned the word ridge before and understanding that it was stupid to think that an asphalt road would go all the way to the snowy top of Mount Rainier. I grab his hand to cover up my shame and mutter, "I love you. To death."

"I love you more." He grins and gives me another peck on the lips. "You're so beautiful, you know that?"

And I don't know how to parry that, dropping my eyes. A surge of excitement runs through me, pins and needles. My hands shake.

Hunter turns and revs up the bike.

"Shit, we're almost out of fuel. Get on!"

"I'm on!" I shout, clutching him from behind. We whiz up the path and past the entrance, ignoring the shouts of the ranger who sticks his head out the window, surprised.

Up we go, high, higher, taking tight turns at incredible speed, waiting for that perfect drop-off to come.

How ironic is it to experience the last twenty minutes of your life as the most vibrant and happy. The sky's aglow with September morning, and I gobble it up with my eyes. I suck the cool wind, full of autumn smells, through my nose. The thick brush is dotted with the distant tinkle of deer souls. I taste the mountain air on my tongue, a nectar of vastness and freedom akin to standing on the peak's top, hugging rough rock, yelling to the world, Look at me, I made it! Above all, Hunter's burning soul, although smoldering, is still the sweet penultimate note to finish it all off.

I begin to count the minutes. Seven pass by, thirteen left until we reach our spot.

Each turn makes my heart stop. We ride higher still, twisting together with the road.

"Right there!" Hunter yells and points across the valley. I dare to glance to my right, and then down—and I wish I didn't. We're riding on the top edge of a narrow valley with a river at its very bottom. He points to a cliff across the valley. So our drop won't be a spectacular 14,000 feet high like I thought; more like 500 feet. Still, it's breath-catching. A layer of fog palms the tree tops ever so gently, torn into patches of needlework by the sun. I dare not breathe, not wanting to blow off whatever is left of it.

Six minutes left.

We take a sharp right turn together with the road. Douglas firs, red cedars, and hemlocks recede, giving way to occasional pine clumps against open clearings tickled with berries and dew. I hug Hunter even tighter. He covers my hands with his left palm, hot and sweaty despite the rapidly dropping temperature.

I press my knees into his thighs and squeeze hard. I feel his stomach muscles roll under my arms. I imprint my face in his back wanting to melt into him and become a permanent impression—one solid being instead of two.

I listen to the low thumping of his heart and imagine riding inside his blood vessels at full speed, bathing hot and red like boiling tea after a walk in a winter afternoon. Straight to his heart that's still beating.

Four minutes left.

Pieces of crumbled rock fly from under the bike's wheels and skitter down into nearly eight thousand feet of obscurity. I turn my head back a little to see the mountain. It's on my right and a little behind us now. Sunrays hit its top with their golden glory. It must be close to three o'clock in the afternoon. The sky has cleared of clouds. The sun shines down the valley, rendering it gray, covering it with a layer of milky thick mist, just like I've seen on postcards.

One minute.

I nuzzle my face all over Hunter's back, trying to absorb as much of him as I can; reveling in the shape of his ribs that curve out from a delicate spine to the smooth sides of his torso, tense with apprehension. As if in answer, Hunter guns the throttle. The bike sputters and coughs up a phlegm of purple exhaust.

"We're out of fucking fuel!" he yells. "Right on time!"

"I love you!" I yell back, wondering if these would be the last words I tell him, rubbing my hands all over him in a mad urgent caress, feeling his face, touching his lips, sliding my fingers down his neck, panic rolling over me and pulling me under.

"I love you more!" he shouts with delirious glee. His voice is sharp with shrillness. We are near. I can see the drop-off ahead of us.

Thirty seconds.

This is our final stretch. I clench my arms around his waist, not worried anymore if I cut off his breath or not. I'd mash him to pieces and stuff him into my pocket if I could, to dip my fingers inside his homespun goodness, forever warm and soothing. Hunter grunts and grabs my hands briefly, crushing my fingers.

Ten seconds.

We go in a straight line, right into the sun, into the split that divides the horizon, light blue and dark blue. Blue is my favorite color.

Three. Two. One.

Ahead of us is an observation point with a two-foot high stone fence running along its edge. I momentarily freak out thinking we will smash into it and that will be the end of our glory. But before I can shout anything, I see a gap straight ahead, about six feet wide, and that's where Hunter's headed.

A wooden make-shift fence is propped in front of it, sporting a sign that says DANGER and something else that I have no time to read.

"We're on!" Hunter yells.

As if anticipating our descent, the road in this spot curves slightly down, and we hit the wooden make-shift fence head on, making it fly up spectacularly and then over us, dropping with a creaking thud as we roll forward.

Our hearts beat in unison and threaten to overpower the motorcycle's buzz. Its tires hug the asphalt one last time, revolve another ninety degrees in a fraction of a second, and burst free of gravity like a rookie diver propelled by sheer force, off the cliff, into the air.

We fly.