First steps on the bridge
The planks creaked. The bridge groaned with a low, mournful sound, like a heavy door opening in an empty house. The ravine amplified every sound, and the wind began to pick up, as if to deliberately remind us that this place was unstable.
The structure rocked beneath our feet. I grabbed the rusty side rope. It was icy and left a rusty dust on my hand, which immediately stuck to my skin.
Ranger barked louder and louder. His barks became high-pitched, nervous whimpers.
We were halfway there. Mark was leading the way. I was directly behind Emma. Caleb was bringing up the rear.
The river roared fifty feet below us, rushing with such force that it seemed like a living creature. From above, it looked like a foaming, gray whirlpool.
“See?” Mark shouted over the wind, but his voice sounded thin, unnatural. “It’s solid enough!”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to be right. I wanted it all to be just the dog’s unnecessary panic and our exaggeration.
Then I heard a sound.
A sound that sounded like a gunshot
It wasn’t a squeak. It wasn’t the typical crack of old wood.
It was a metallic “ping”—sharp, piercingly loud, like a gunshot right next to your ear.
