I finally caught a signal somewhere around 29,000 feet. The wind is blistering. Don’t have a lot of time. My parachute malfunctioned. The reserve too. Something went wrong in the rigging shed. Doesn’t matter now. I think I have a little over 2 minutes, maybe less. A million things are gargling in my brain, bubbling out my eyes and mouth. I think I’m crying. Or laughing. It’s hard to feel my face. The wind feels like knives slicing into my stomach and arms. My ears feel like they’re pressed against the underside of a vacuum cleaner. The horizon looks nice. A faint grey swelling upwards before dissolving into a greenish blue. Further up, it turns stark black. Space?

There are a thousand needles sticking up from the ground. How far have I fallen? I don’t want to check. Doesn’t matter. I called my wife when I realized I was going to die, right around the time my parachute fluttered from the harness, limp and formless. She didn’t answer. Should be running our son to school, it gets busy in the parking lot.

The smell of turkey swims up my nose. I see people around a table. A big man wearing a striped shirt sits at the end. It’s my dad. Thanksgiving of ’04. I’m 11.

I spell a cherry blossom fragrance. It’s fanning from my wife. I’m hugging her waist in the mirror. That was this morning.

My 6th grade English teacher grades my paper, smiles and tells me I should be a writer. Don’t know why he’s here, but I’m glad to see him. Mr. Hughes.

My son says when he grows up, he’s going to be a police officer. I won’t ever know if he does, but I think he’d make a skilled detective. He’s got a knack for solving riddles. I think he will.

I’m panicking a little. I’m not scared that I’m going to die—I’m scared that I haven’t told my wife I loved her enough times. Terrified I didn’t play enough catch with my son. God, I hope I did. Does she know I love her? Does she really know? I don’t think my son will remember me. Don’t think I did enough memorable things with him.

The needles have become buildings now. I can see windows. Square objects are zipping left and right. Cars. My guess is I’ve got thirty or forty seconds left. I’m confident that I won’t feel anything. But to be sure, I’ve rotated my body so that my head is first. I’ve decided right before impact, I’ll shut my eyes and think about my wife. I want her to be the last thing I see.

I want to say more, but I need time to log in and post this.

—And don’t worry. Incidents like this have an infinitesimally small chance of occurring.

I just drew the short straw.

Thank you for reading… And goodbye.