Her skirt billowed, then wrapped around her as she tumbled. I watched her through the viewfinder, an unnaturally pink anomaly in sharp focus against the grey background of the bridge. I'd never be able to look at that color again without feeling the horror of seeing a woman plunging from the Foresthill Bridge. Half my brain followed her descent with my camera while the other half was in a blind, screaming panic. "No!" I tossed the camera into my camp chair and sprinted upriver. The riverbank was rocky, stone ledge mixed with large rocks, boulders and pebble beaches. My heart pounded as I slipped and teetered, skidding over the smooth surfaces, tripping over loose stones. I scanned the river as I ran, watching for a splash of pink. Twice I stopped myself from falling by steadying myself on rocks, and my hands were stinging. I sucked air and held the stitch that developed in my side as I made my way up stream. The fall appeared horrific. Could she have survived? Please, let her be alive.
