At 3 o’clock on Monday afternoons, it is believed the stairway descends from the skies to take
lost souls to paradise. The platform hangs in the space where the sky curves into the edges of the
world. Nothing has stepped foot (or claw, or flipper, well, you know) on the platform for ages. It
is another Monday. But perhaps not so ordinary. The watch clicks on my wrist. 2:51. But look,
what is this! A man is climbing to the platform. He staggers in his steps, and even from this far, I
can see the way his shirt clings to his sticky, dripping skin. I see the hope in his eyes. His legs
shake as he looks at the large gap between the top two steps. He swallows. I hold my breath.
Then, with a scream, he hurdles over, legs kicking in the air. No, he won’t make it, I think. But
he does, somehow. Because his hand catches on the edge of the step, and he dangles over the
edge of oblivion for a few heartbeats. Exhausted, he bends and pushes an arm upward, drops, and
pushes himself again. His eyes shine with tears. Come on, I feel myself urging him on. With a
grunt, drops of blood shine from his lips, and he seems to use the last of his strength to pull
himself onto the step. Then he lays there in a slippery heap, his skin bruised, his chest heaving. Is
he dead? Somehow, with a will so great even I fear it, he stands and his legs shake as he makes
his way onto the platform. His two feet plant into the wood and my heart soars. At last! A
challenger.