“Okay,” the felon says, standing right in front of me. He’s touching the baby’s head with his gargantuan hands. He’s cooing and telling the baby to be brave. “Tell us what to do.”
We begin to assemble, and I quickly lose track of the many layers forming the new pyramid. From all the rustling and small talk buzzing around, there seems to be a sizable population awaiting placement.
“Aren’t we high enough?” someone shouts from above. “I think I feel what you were talking about before. My hair’s floating. The air is different up here.”
“I don’t know,” I shout. But perhaps it’s time for us to try.
“Does anybody have a shirt or a jacket? Something I can use to make a sling?” I say. Someone hands me what feels like a nylon windbreaker—light and sleek and at least an XXL judging from how the jacket overwhelms my torso.
“It’s the Charlotte Hornets jacket I had as a kid—bright turquoise, purple, and white. I loved that thing. Woke up here wearing it—perfect fit, even though I’m six-foot-seven now. I want it back when you’re done,” the man says.
I hand the baby to the old woman while I secure the jacket to my chest, tying the sleeves around my back, tucking the bottom into my pants, leaving a pocket for the child.
“Are you sure?” the old woman says. The baby gurgles in her arms as I reach for it.
“I’ve never been sure of anything,” I say. “I wish we could see how high we’ve gone. I bet it’s a sight, like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.”
“If my grandchildren were little like this one, I’d want them to have a real life,” the old woman says. “But part of me doesn’t want to let go. What if the baby gets sick after we send it back? What if this is our second chance? I’m afraid.”
The old woman kisses the head of the infant and hands them to me. I maneuver the baby into the pocket surrounding my chest, cinching the jacket arms tighter. The baby’s breath and drool are moistening my shirt. The baby’s fingers hold on to the collar of my T-shirt— Yes, that’s right. Hold on tight. Like before, I ascend the pyramid, treading lightly to avoid stepping on too many heads and hands. I stop periodically to readjust the jacket, cinching the knots tight whenever I feel the sleeves coming loose, the sleek fabric threatening to untuck from my pants. With every layer, I check that the pocket is secure, afraid the baby might fall. Deep inside the pyramid the group shares more details about their lives, sings songs to keep up morale, reveals things they’ve never told anybody, because somehow not being able to see each other makes it all okay, like confessing to a priest or praying to the night sky. There are games of Twenty Questions and Truth or Dare alongside conversations about the soul and the future of humanity. It feels like I have been climbing for years, and perhaps in the land of life, years have passed. Will the child enter the body of a teenager or an adult, see through the eyes of an infant? Will they remember or be able to articulate any of this? The questions multiply as I reach the summit, as does the force of the pull from whatever resides above. I think about making wishes at the star festival and my parents trying so hard to read and understand the stories I’ve written. I think about my father telling me about opportunities in life floating in the wind like seeds. May all the blessed seeds find their way to this child, I whisper.
At the top, I can feel my body wanting to shoot upward into the black sky, as if a puppet master is pulling on marionette strings. Two hands grasp my ankles as I nearly lose my balance. But even at this height, the force is not enough to fully lift me. I unwrap the infant from the jacket and hold them tight to my chest. Breathe in the smell of innocence and youth.
“I bet you didn’t expect to wake up to this,” I say. “And who knows what you’ll wake up to tomorrow. I hope you’ll be okay.”
As if the baby knows what is going to happen, they begin to cry.
“Throw the damn kid up there already,” someone shouts from below.
“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” I say. “Remember us.”
And before I hesitate any further, I raise the infant above my head, feel their tiny squirming body sliding away from my hands. Almost immediately I regret letting go. The infant screams and I begin to sob. They are at the mercy of space now, the ether—all the invisible borders and choices between us. I remain at the pinnacle of the pyramid, looking up at nothing at all, waiting for the infant’s cries to fade before climbing back down.