He ended up hanging from the metal cross atop the steeple with the breeze riffling through his half-unbuttoned shirt. The rusty iron cut into his palms as yelled for help. But anyone who might have stopped by that old church was out at the river, for it was a baptismal Sunday and a new baby had been born.
He was not a desperate man, nor a heathen. For all the knuckled awkwardness of the situation, his mind was balanced. It’s an unfortunate, silly thing, he thought, then opened his mouth and ululated for help again. The quiet afternoon answered.
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