she lands with buckled knees and collapses onto her heavy shoulder. the valley is yellow and green and hyacinth purple –– and it’s silent but for the wind that whistles through it. the wet dew. the breeze rustling the back of her hair. exhausted, she closes her eyes, and wakes up waterlogged like she has dragged herself out of the sea. it takes a second when she roles over onto her back –– nose and forehead smudged with mud –– to realise the weight obstructing her is the parachute and not the sea trapped under her coat, under her jumper. rain bounces out of the wet hollow of her eye. she squints and unclips the parachute, escapes it, and drags herself up by the indifferent grass until she can sit and watch the grazing sheep.