No one knew Cavorite Flats had no gravity until the neighbour's cow got unstuck from the fence, wandered on to the ten acres of dirt and shrub, and floated off into the sky like a piebald balloon. When folks caught sight of it, they rushed to the fenceline, hollered to others to come look. Most of them couldn't believe it. One dude, a seasonal ranch hand, didn't believe it, edging a boot over the property line, only to have his leg float up, his whole self flipped upside down, like he'd been lassoed by some incorporeal wrangler. His buddies grabbed him just in time. He lost the boot though.

As word of mouth spread through the valley and beyond, scientists and TV stations the world over came to test, prod, observe, and make a spectacle of the "columnar gravitational anomaly" as it came to be known. Reporters, sunburnt and sweating through their suits, hammed it up for the camera as gobsmacked locals rolled wrecked tractors and hay balers (one guy even brought a big old Winnebago) onto the lot. Nothing was too big or heavy for the flats, everything slowly, eventually, shrinking in to the deep blue of the atmosphere, then disappearing forever. The scientists, meanwhile, did their damndest to answer everyone's questions: why has this happened? Why does it stop at the property lines? Will this eventually spread everywhere? They tethered themselves to the fences, punched anchors into the dusty earth, and floated about drilling holes and collecting samples in glass jars strung about them like bandoliers. The holes left little strings of dirt trailing up into the sky, striping the red forest-fire sunsets.

But all their work and all their efforts turned up nothing, and short of a sign from God to explain it, excitement around the Flats died down. When they were convinced the land would not spread its mysterious spell to neighbouring plots, the scientists retreated to their universities to pour over the data, the satellite trucks packed up and returned to their cities, and the government boarded the property up, decorating its sharper, higher fencing with all manner of sunflower-yellow CAUTION signage.

But Cavorite stirred up another fuss, once the suicides started. At first it was just the one, wayward and gaunt, fighting through an overlooked break in the chainlink, then, about a mile up, waving arms and legs to try and swim back to the ground, as though it were just a matter of fighting the current. But of course the video brought others. Folks that'd lost hope and wanted a clean escape. An easy one. Normally, it was a lot of work, forcing one's own body to cause that much damage to itself. Cavorite didn't demand that. Once you made the pilgrimage to the flats, dying really became as simple as letting go. Articles and websites popped up online, lauding the land's benefits with a cultish fervour. One fringe group of Christians got the most attention for suggesting everyone "float to Him" as soon as they found themselves able. After all, ain't no way you're going to hell if you're headed straight up.

It became customary for those looking to float off to tuck their driver's licenses into the fencing before doing so. Over time the chainlink was quilted with them, a kind of monument to those lost, or found, depending on your beliefs. Eventually the city took them all down, citing graffiti bylaws or something, but most would tell you quietly, one-on-one, that they didn't want the place turning into some kind ghoulish tourist attraction. They ended up putting another, taller, fence around the property, with razor wire and ballistic nylon netting slung over the top, and hazard lighting to divert aircraft. And yet, we'd still see the lights of the fire engines, every week or so, driving to Cavorite, to haul someone else down who was stuck trying to leave.

Not that I ever understood it, mind you. Wasn't there always someone for somebody? Family. Friends. Support groups. Therapists. You get the idea. What in this world can hurt so bad? I'd ask you. What in all of this world can't be fixed?

But then you asked, removing your oxygen, easing yourself up out of your chair, moving to the screen door and gesturing to the flats, visible just below the horizon from our porch. You asked me if there was another way through the netting. Yes, I said. The nylon, it can melt. And you nodded. And I wanted to ask you so badly to sit back down, to stay. Because if I could get you to stay one more night, maybe I could get you to stay one more night the next night, too. And then I could just keep doing that, and keep you as long as I needed. But if Cavorite taught us anything, it was that you couldn't keep what didn't want to be kept. That which does not want to remain static will resist all known forces of man and nature and break off. So instead, I got you your cardigan and your shoes, the blowtorch and the bolt cutters, and I took your arm in mine. You gave me a kiss, like you hadn't in years, and said oh, my dear, won't it be lovely to watch the sun rise over the valley from way way up there?



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