I pushed my hands into the grips and tried to extend my arms, fast. But where the wingset should have unfurled, silk and battens held my arms to my sides. I fought back panic and tried again. A look over my shoulder with the wind whistling through my ears told me why: spiderwebs snarled the wings at key points, binding them. Another jerk of my arms, stronger this time, stretched the webs, but the cams and gears still jammed. I had little time, I knew it. But pulling too hard risked breaking the wings. I would drop like garbage. I opened and closed the mechanisms gently, extending a little farther with each effort. I tried to breathe in time with my motions. Meanwhile, my fall accelerated, the white cloudtop grew closer. Tower children learned falling was the worst thing that could happen to a person. The clouds were full of danger, darkness, and storms. Up high was the safest place to be. To the towers, “fallen” meant grief. And “cloudbound” meant dead. What I knew now was different.
