The pulley was wedged by a small object that must have fallen through the opening at a most precise moment.

A car key.

“Don’t release the cart!” Eddie yelled. He waved his arms. “HEY! HEEEEY! IT’S THE CABLE! DON’T RELEASE THE CART! IT’LL SNAP!”

The crowd drowned him out. It cheered wildly as Willie and Dominguez unloaded the final rider. All four were safe. They hugged atop the platform.

“DOM! WILLIE!” Eddie yelled. Someone banged against his waist, knocking his walkie-talkie to the ground. Eddie bent to get it. Willie went to the controls. He put his finger on the green button. Eddie looked up.

“NO, NO, NO, DON’T!”

Eddie turned to the crowd. “GET BACK!”

Something in Eddie’s voice must have caught the people’s attention; they stopped cheering and began to scatter. An opening cleared around the bottom of Freddy’s Free Fall.

And Eddie saw the last face of his life.

She was sprawled upon the ride’s metal base, as if someone had knocked her into it, her nose running, tears filling her eyes, the little girl with the pipe-cleaner animal. Amy? Annie?

“Ma … Mom … Mom …” she heaved, almost rhythmically, her body frozen in the paralysis of crying children.

“Ma … Mom … Ma … Mom …”

Eddie’s eyes shot from her to the carts. Did he have time? Her to the carts—

Whump. Too late. The carts were dropping. Jesus, he released the brake!–and for Eddie, everything slipped into watery motion. He dropped his cane and pushed off his bad leg and felt a shot of pain that almost knocked him down. A big step. Another step. Inside the shaft of Freddy’s Free Fall, the cable snapped its final thread and ripped across the hydraulic line. Cart No. 2 was in a dead drop now, nothing to stop it, a boulder off a cliff.

In those final moments, Eddie seemed to hear the whole world: distant screaming, waves, music, a rush of wind, a low, loud, ugly sound that he realized was his own voice blasting through his chest. The little girl raised her arms. Eddie lunged. His bad leg buckled. He half flew, half stumbled toward her, landing on the metal platform, which ripped through his shirt and split open his skin, just beneath the patch that read EDDIE and MAINTENANCE. He felt two hands in his own, two small hands.

A stunning impact.

A blinding flash of light.

And then, nothing.

It is the 1920s, a crowded hospital in one of the poorest sections of the city. Eddie’s father smokes cigarettes in the waiting room, where the other fathers are also smoking cigarettes. The nurse enters with a clipboard. She calls his name. She mispronounces it. The other men blow smoke. Well?

He raises his hand.

“Congratulations,” the nurse says.

He follows her down the hallway to the newborns’ nursery. His shoes clap on the floor.

“Wait here,” she says.

Through the glass, he sees her check the numbers of the wooden cribs. She moves past one, not his, another, not his, another, not his, another, not his.

She stops. There. Beneath the blanket. A tiny head covered in a blue cap. She checks her clipboard again, then points.

The father breathes heavily, nods his head. For a moment, his face seems to crumble, like a bridge collapsing into a river. Then he smiles.

His.

Eddie saw nothing of his final moment on earth, nothing of the pier or the crowd or the shattered fiberglass cart.

In the stories about life after death, the soul often floats above the good-bye moment, hovering over police cars at highway accidents, or clinging like a spider to hospital-room ceilings. These are people who receive a second chance, who somehow, for some reason, resume their place in the world.

Eddie, it appeared, was not getting a second chance.

WHERE … ? Where … ? Where … ? The sky was a misty pumpkin shade, then a deep turquoise, then a bright lime. Eddie was floating, and his arms were still extended.

Where … ?

The tower cart was falling. He remembered that. The little girl—Amy? Annie?—she was crying. He remembered that. He remembered lunging. He remembered hitting the platform. He felt her two small hands in his.

Then what?

Did I save her?

Eddie could only picture it at a distance, as if it happened years ago. Stranger still, he could not feel any emotions that went with it. He could only feel calm, like a child in the cradle of its mother’s arms.

Where … ?

The sky around him changed again, to grapefruit yellow, then a forest green, then a pink that Eddie momentarily associated with, of all things, cotton candy.

Did I save her?

Did she live?

Where …

… is my worry?

Where is my pain?

That was what was missing. Every hurt he’d ever suffered, every ache he’d ever endured—it was all as gone as an expired breath. He could not feel agony. He could not feel sadness. His consciousness felt smoky, wisplike, incapable of anything but calm. Below him now, the colors changed again. Something was swirling. Water. An ocean. He was floating over a vast yellow sea. Now it turned melon. Now it was sapphire. Now he began to drop, hurtling toward the surface. It was faster than anything he’d ever imagined, yet there wasn’t as much as a breeze on his face, and he felt no fear. He saw the sands of a golden shore.

Then he was under water.

Then everything was silent.

Where is my worry?

Where is my pain?

He is five years old. It is a Sunday afternoon at Ruby Pier. Picnic tables are set along the boardwalk, which overlooks the long white beach. There is a vanilla cake with blue wax candles. There is a bowl of orange juice. The pier workers are milling about, the barkers, the sideshow acts, the animal trainers, some men from the fishery. Eddie’s father, as usual, is in a card game. Eddie plays at his feet. His older brother, Joe, is doing push-ups in front of a group of elderly women, who feign interest and clap politely.

Eddie is wearing his birthday gift, a red cowboy hat and a toy holster. He gets up and runs from one group to the next, pulling out the toy gun and going, “Bang, bang!”

“C’mere boy,” Mickey Shea beckons from a bench.

“Bang, bang,” goesEddie.

Mickey Shea works with Eddie’s dad, fixing the rides. He is fat and wears suspenders and is always singing Irish songs. To Eddie, he smells funny, like cough medicine.

“C’mere. Lemme do your birthday bumps,” he says. “Like we do in Ireland.”

Suddenly, Mickey’s large hands are under Eddie’s he is hoisted up, then flipped over and dangled by the feet. Eddie’s hat falls off.

“Careful, Mickey!” Eddie’s mother yells. Eddie s father looks up, smirks, then returns to his card game.

“Ho, ho. I got ‘im,” Mickey says. “Now. One birthday bump for every year.”

Mickey lowers Eddie gently, until his head brushes the floor.

“One!”

Mickey lifts Eddie back up. The others join in, laughing. They yell, “Two! … Three!”

Upside down, Eddie is not sure who is who. His head is getting heavy.

“Four! …” they shout. “Five!”

Eddie is flipped right-side up and put down. Everybody claps. Eddie reaches for his hat, then stumbles over. He gets up, wobbles to Mickey Shea, and punches him in the arm.

“Ho-ho! What was that for, little man?” Mickey says. Everyone laughs. Eddie turns and runs away, three steps, before being swept into his mothers arms.

“Are you all right, my darling birthday boy?” She is only inches from his face. He sees her deep red lipstick and her plump, soft cheeks and the wave of her auburn hair.

“I was upside down,” he tells her.