She stood on the outside of her own railing on the ledge with both hands behind her on the rail, twenty-two feet up, and the April air came up the side of the building and moved her hair.

One step.

Thirty-one inches.

She could reach the Petrossians’ rail with her left hand before her left foot committed.

She thought — and this is the thing she remembered most clearly, more than the fear — if I fall, they win, and they’ll be sad at the funeral.

She stepped.

Her hand closed on the neighboring rail.

Her weight came across.