Atlas

Gravity pulls harder now, even this close to the top of the world. People carrying their weight in goods and luggage pass Tashi like they’re carrying nothing at all. He breaks down and stops wherever the trail widens, stares down the crumbling flanks of the mountain until the perspective makes him sick. Easy. It would be so easy. But Tashi stays put—if he steps over, that’s it. No going back. Dad will never know what happened, Nima might never know where he went, and Tashi will never know whether she missed him at all.

From here, he can still see home. Three peaks, the highest in the middle, a granite crown. Two massifs on either side of the head that reach around like sheltering arms. He was safe in its shadow, never cared to look down from the top until Pemba did. He should be out of its sight by now, following the glacial vein that bleeds down the valley. Should. Maybe he’s stuck for good this time, and maybe the next breath doesn’t belong to him. You don’t make promises in the mountains.

A pair of hiking boots shuffle up from behind, and whoever they belong to eclipses the sun. Tashi looks up. The stranger could be Atlas, the world on his shoulders, wind stirring the black hair escaping his hat—one Atlas of dozens who use the trail every day. “Are you alright?” he asks, speaking Sherpa.

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

“You look sick.”

Tashi doesn’t answer. He can’t lie to the sherpas here—they’ve seen everything, heard every accompanying excuse. Taking off his pack, the boy crouches beside Tashi. “Do you need oxygen?”

And they don’t ask questions unless they already know the answer.

He’s already getting a bottle out when Tashi shakes his head. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“We crossed paths—that makes you my responsibility.” He holds the bottle out like he’s trying to make peace with a flighty dog. “I’m just going to leave it here if you don’t take it. Then no one gets any.”

“How old are you?” Tashi asks, accepting the oxygen.

“Sixteen. How old are you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t. Don’t ask weird questions,” the boy says, sitting next to Tashi. He eats lunch there on the edge of the trail. Today the mountains must be asleep—they breathe in zephyrs and the clouds stretch upward, not sideways. Tashi turns the bottle over. Menthol-flavored oxygen in a can that looks like it holds carbon and water, nothing like the heavy orange post-drivers he used to carry. “Weird, right?” The boy’s mouth is full. “We carry them for the tourists. Do you have asthma or something?”

“Now you’re just being mean,” Tashi says through a smile. “I got sick a few weeks ago. You know, once-in-a-lifetime kind of sick because otherwise you’d be dead? I guess I’m still getting over it.”

“That sucks. Did you get fired?”

“I don’t work in trekking. I’m here for a funeral,” Tashi says.

Chewing, the boy looks Tashi up and down, then turns back to the peaks on the opposing side of the valley. “What’s your name?”

“I thought we weren’t asking weird questions. You already got my medical history.”

“We’ll be even when you tell me your name.” Streaks of dirt cover the boy’s face. He looks younger than sixteen, young enough to be playing in the garden instead of plodding through the mountains.

“My name is Tashi Dawa.”

The kid laughs. “That name doesn’t fit you. You sound pretty unlucky to me.”

“I’m not unlucky every day,” Tashi says. Most days are good or at least not bad—it’s just that the bad days contaminate the good. He finds his wallet in the front of his backpack and offers the stranger a few notes, but he doesn’t take them.

“You don’t have to pay me. No one will notice a missing oxygen bottle.”

“I’m just going to let it go if you don’t take it. Then no one gets to spend any.” Tashi waits. The boy blinks, then accepts the money. Tashi has everything he needs. What he wants can’t be bought. They part ways. One is hiking into the ether, the other finding his way back to earth.