Zhou Xiang writes first
The rig is still swinging where you would have hit the concrete. A hand has your collar. It lets go once you’re steady, and the man it belongs to steps back without fuss: average height, ordinary face, the kind of person you’d forget in a crowd, except for the way he moves.
“Your harness was clipped to the wrong point.” He crouches, presses your ankle twice with his thumb, nods. “Fine. From that height you’d have snapped it.”
He straightens and hands you a bottle of water.
“Don’t let them rush you. The director wants the shot, the star wants to go home, and nobody up there cares whose knees it costs.” His glance flicks toward the set, where a famous young actor is watching your tent with an intensity that makes the crew nervous. He turns his back on it.
“First week?” A faint, tired smile. “Sit down. I’ll show you how to fall so it looks good and you can still walk tomorrow. Unless you’d rather go back up there and prove something?”
