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The Stairs

Two at a time, two at a time,

Two at a time, two at a time,

Two at a time, two at a time,

Step, step.

Two at a time, two at a time,

Two at a time, two at a time,

Two at a time, two at a time

Step, step.

“On the left,” I call. People have already moved out of the way for Elaine, who is a few flights above me. I call out anyway, in case anyone drifts back over. This is one of the rules. Faster climbers get the inside track. Slow moving people keep right. Parents drill the rules into their children.

Keep up the pace.

Don't stop for long.

Try to help others whenever you can.

Try not to fight.

Take what you need.

Share what you find.

Call on the left if you need to pass someone.

Slow moving people keep right.

The rules make sense. Like a parent they are easy to embrace. So children do. The hard stuff comes later.

Explore corridors when you can. But not for too long. If you feel the rising cold then climb as fast as you can. If someone stops climbing you will never see them again. Some people can't be helped. A quick and steady pace will get you ahead, and buy you time to find things you need. Things we all need. But when you feel the cold rising you have to start climbing again. You always end up leaving something behind.

I didn't want to leave my parents behind. Mom had been climbing slower and slower. I didn't know why. I still don't know why. It doesn't matter why.

“Keep up the pace,” she always told me. But now she was down on a landing. Dad crouched over her, as if to shield her from the rising cold.

I stood above them, more than strong enough to carry her. I had carried her before from time to time, for a flight or two, just like she carried me when I was young. I reached down to pick her up, but Dad shoved me away.

“Go on,” Mom said. “It's fine. Keep going. Quick and steady.”

His snarl was simpler.

“Climb.”

I had felt cold before, but not this cruel, angry cold. My cheeks wouldn't move. My ears hurt. The handrail turned white.

I obeyed my parents.

I climbed.

At the next landing I looked back at them, huddled together. I knew I would never see them again. Some people can't be helped.

I took off, climbing faster than I ever had before. Two at a time. Sometimes three at a time. I charged up flight after flight. I welcomed the burning in my lungs. I didn't think I would ever feel warm again. I didn't think I would ever feel whole again.

I passed almost everyone and kept going, farther and farther ahead. It bought me time to explore down corridors. I found things. Water, clothes, food. I brought things back to the landing and passed things out to people climbing. Then I raced up and did it again.

One haul was really big. Box after box of sweet food in foil packets. I gave food to everyone who passed, and still had more. I stayed with it until I felt a chill in the air. The people passing now didn't need food. They were moving too slowly. Grim, determined looks solidified on their faces. If the cold had to catch them, it would not catch them lying down.

I heard his irregular steps before I saw him. He was older, but not that old. He leaned heavy on the railing, half stepping, half pulling himself up each step. One ankle was badly swollen. He grimaced with every step.

Some people can't be helped. Help others when you can.

When he reached the landing I leaned over and motioned toward my back. Even with a heavy load I could climb fast enough. His ankle would heal in time. He just needed to get far enough ahead. He could go on climbing for a long, long time.

Men don't get carried often. He tried to wave me away.

“It's getting cold,” I said. “Let me help, or stay here and die.”

He leaned on my back and I lifted him. I climbed slowly, one step at a time, but I gained speed with each flight. Soon we were passing people. One, then another. Then in bunches. I kept going. Slow and steady.

Then we passed his wife and daughter. They thought he had stopped climbing. When they saw us they laughed and cried and patted him. I passed them, but the daughter kept up. She was about my age. She had long, black hair and dancing brown eyes. She went ahead, calling for people to make way. I watched her above me. Her long hair bounced as she climbed. Her calves were thick like I-beams. I had never seen anyone so beautiful.

After a long time my legs were burning. I set him down on the landing. He thanked me quickly. There wasn't much to say.

As I passed the daughter she kissed me on my sweaty head and told me her name was Elaine. My cheeks burned. My legs weren't tired any more.

Now we climb together. She's half a flight above me, and we are way ahead of the cold. We could explore a corridor together. We won't have as much time as we want. But we will have enough.

I don't want to think too much. Deep thought takes time. It's hard to think and climb. The cold is always rising.

Her pace has slowed a little, but I slow down, too. I don't want to catch her just yet.

When I was young I asked my parents why we climb.

“It's fun to climb,” said my mother.

“We have no choice,” said my father.

I asked if there would always be more stairs to climb.

“You have to trust that there will always be more stairs to climb,” my father said, like it was an order, a punishment for breaking some obscure rule I didn't even know existed.

“You have to trust that there will always be more stairs to climb,” my mother said, and smiled, like being able to trust was the most wonderful gift you could ever receive.