Page 87 of The Most Dangerous Games

“What the hell . . . ?” Wyatt shouts, grabbing only for air now.

Wyatt starts to slide back down the rock face, no way to get a handhold or a foothold, feeling as helpless as he ever has in his life.

No way to stop himself.

Or save himself.

Reg is the one who somehow manages to do that.

Somehow he grabs hold of the collar of Wyatt’s vest, then manages to get his arm around Wyatt’s neck almost in a choke hold, as he pushes him onto a smaller rock ledge ten feet short of the summit.

“Don’t let go,” Wyatt pleads to Reg.

“Don’t worry,” Reg says. “I won’t.”

Then: “Just move to the side a little so I can get next to you, then we’ll go the rest of the way together.”

“Okay . . . I guess,” Wyatt says.

Reg is reaching for the ledge when his feet give way.

And Reg is the one starting to slip-slide and tumble down rock that feels incredibly slick, incredibly smooth, making it impossible for him to get a grip, find any crevasse or knob. Find anything to stop his downward momentum.

Then Tipton reaches for Reg. Reg’s hand finds Tipton’s wrist. Tipton clamps down. Reg hauls himself up until his chest is level with the ledge—

And then Tipton hears the click. The Host again. Private.

“Now,” The Host says. “Let him go.”

Tipton’s eyes widen a fraction. He locks up.

Reg sees it.

In that split second—Reg hanging half on, half off the summit—Reg reads Tipton like he’s reading a play on a rugby field. Reg gives Tipton the briefest of nods.

Tipton’s throat bobs. His grip trembles.

The Host whispers, “Do it, or she’s gone.”

Tipton’s hand opens.

For a heartbeat Reg’s eyes stay on Tipton—no surprise, just a grim understanding.

Tipton lunges instantly, horror flooding his face, knowing the choice didn’t belong to him the second after he made it. He dives, arm shooting down, fingers clawing air.

He catches nothing.

His glove tears on rock. Skin rips underneath.

Hannah grabs Tipton’s belt and yanks him back from the edge, saving him from following Reg into the ravine.

Wyatt sees it all from ten feet below.

“Reg, take my hand!” Wyatt yells, reaching as far as he can without falling off the ledge himself.

It’s the same way he screamed when he was pulling Alek Andrich out of the hole in the ice that day; the way he did when he needed an extra burst of energy or speed or strength in the Olympics.

The way he had when he’d saved Hannah.