Free Swap Out by Katie Golding

down threats and he was one of the reasons I made it out of the hospital after being shot six times. Because every chance he got, he was there with me. Taunting me to stop crying about a few scratches and how I was missing a hell of a view from the jumps they were throwing him into. And when I was cleared for active duty, he was beside me when I went back out into the field. He covered me when things got tight, and in his own asshole way, he talked me through it until I was free of the paranoia.
    I had another year left in my contract and I saw it out, and he didn’t try to change my mind when I told him I wasn’t going to re-up. I’m not even sure why he made the same decision I did, but for six months we just toured the U.S. as civilians, crossing items off our bucket lists and visiting our rowdy group of friends. Maybe it was because I don’t think he ever expected to live past the age of twenty-one. Can’t really blame him, it still blows my mind that I made it this far. So now that in a couple of years I’ll be staring down thirty and he already is, he’s attacking life like any day might be his last.
    Jumps are getting higher. Free soloing instead of trad. He went wingsuiting a few months ago and I’ll admit, I was jealous, but I had to work and couldn’t make the trip. The man literally stood on the edge of a cliff, looked down at the rocks waiting below, then jumped: just falling until he spread his arms and legs and let the cloth carry him as he skirted the side of a mountain, skimming the air until he made it all the way down. Sounds like the best way to live, and the perfect way to die.
    It’s going to happen eventually, and the truth is I’d rather it happen by falling off a rock or having my chute fail. It’ll be fast and most likely painless. Organs exploding, spine shattering, lights out. Plus I’ll get a kickass view in my last few seconds. But yesterday when we went climbing and he wanted us to free solo it: no belay, no cams, no ropes, I told him no dice. He spent ten minutes fucking with me about being a pussy and losing my nerve, and I didn’t tell him why I wouldn’t do it, but he finally let it go and we tied in.
    The thing is, normally I’m fine with the risk. If I fall, I fall. Anything over thirty feet, I know I’m not coming back. But for the first time ever, I couldn’t take the chance. And it had everything to do with Zoe.
    I know she’s going to do what she’s going to do, make the decision she’s going to make, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop her. I actually researched it Saturday night after Scott had passed out and I don’t even have a legal leg to stand on. A man cannot obtain an injunction to keep a woman from having an abortion. It’s her body, and her decision, despite the fact that it’s also my blood on the line. And even though abortion is illegal in Utah, except for in the case of rape or incest, it’s not even like I can report her until afterwards because until she does it, she hasn’t broken any laws.
    The whole thing is so unfair and warped it’s insane. Because even if I did want to take her to court over her decision, sue for mental distress or just alert the authorities to what she did, I don’t think I could go through with it. As screwed up as everything is, I’m not about to send Zoe to jail and ruin her life just because she didn’t want one with me in it. That only leaves me with one option: until she takes the drive to Grand Junction or wherever she chooses to have it done, I’m not dancing with death. She’s still pregnant, and it’s still my kid.
    Growing up in foster care, I had a range of different “dads.” Some were drunks, some didn’t care, some were zealots and some I will never have a name for. A few were decent, but those were rare. It only gets worse as you get older, because usually the people taking in a fourteen-year-old boy are looking for something other than a son. They want a source of manual labor; a