He was falling.

A moment earlier he had been standing on solid ground, near the edge of the seaside cliff that dropped sharply to wet black rocks below. Now here he was, his face turned toward the night sky and nothing beneath him but open air. His arms windmilled back and his legs pumped wildly as the memories of a life well lived flashed before his eyes with such speed and vividness it made him gasp.

It really did happen like that, in the moments right before death. He could attest to the fact, if he lived long enough. But he knew he’d never get the chance.

He could still feel the spot on his chest, like a hollow wound, where the hand had struck him hard, coming out of nowhere in a stab of anger. It had caught him so suddenly, so unexpectedly that he’d lost his footing and stumbled to the edge of the cliff, where he’d teetered as a terrifying surge of panic swept through him. An instant later his feet lost contact with solid ground. Now, as he fell, his mind exploded with disbelief and regret, and his face tightened as his mouth pulled back in a death grimace. And underneath it all he cursed himself. He should have seen it coming. All the signs were there. He should have been more attentive. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge. But he’d lost his bearings in the argument. He’d let his emotions drive the wits from him-a fatal mistake, he realized now, and his whole body shuddered at the hard, horrifying realization:

I have just been murdered!

How could this be happening? The surrealism of the moment threatened to overwhelm him, to send him into deep shock. His eyes rolled back, his fingers tingled unnaturally, and his chest felt cold, colder than he would have thought possible. His breath was pulled from him by the rushing air as he felt death closing in on him all too quickly.