A draft in the chilly semi-darkness banged shut the door. The thin latch blade dropped with a click; yellow eyes stared at him from a corner of the oat bin, then vanished, and the uncoiling smells of hay, horses and manure struck at his nose. Other than Caesar and Pompeii who whinnied a good morning to him from their stalls, Josh was alone in the barn, on his own and, looming above him, in the dim light, the hayloft platform and its center opening waited for him.

The opening in the loft floor was where the rope operated metal hayfork, now drooping from its ridgepole track, was dropped to bite a pile of hay from the hayrick and hoist it into the loft. The cutout was neatly square, framed between the ends of the loft platform, but at its sides by narrow walkways. The twins went up there every day, to jump into the hay in the mow below.

Josh hadn’t ever gotten onto the loft platform. He hadn’t ever gotten more than halfway up the ladder before going down again. He wasn’t at all sure he could get up to the loft, let alone onto the walkway to jump like his brothers. But he’d had enough of their teasing. This morning he was going to try.

To his left, the ladder stretched twenty-five feet through a space cut out for it in the still bark-covered, uneven slab flooring of the loft. Josh put his hand on the eye-level rung, looked up, hesitated, removed his hand. It isn’t that far, he thought. I can do it.

He replaced his hand and this time put his other hand on the next higher rung. The rungs were oily, almost slippery, from the horses pressing against them while stretching their necks to lip tufts of hay from the edge of the lower mow as they were harnessed. Josh had to tighten his grip on both rungs several times before raising a foot and beginning to climb.

This morning, he kept climbing.

Where it passed through the loft floor, the ladder wasn’t tied to the framing. There was only a loop of frayed rope within which the ladder shifted forward and back. The higher Josh went, the more his movements caused the ladder to move. Each time the rope stopped it with a jerk, but just below the opening Josh felt as though he would pitch over backward.

Looking at the underside of the platform, he could see that the slab flooring of the loft was nailed to a frame of slim logs, some little more than poles some so skinny he thought he could get his fingers around them. The cracks between the rough, uneven edges of the slabs were so wide he could see through to the roof. The platform didn’t look sturdy, he thought, but if Rick and Rob can get up here to jump, so can I.

With two more leg thrusts his head was through the opening and his head above the floor. He paused there for a long time, his arm around one side beam of the ladder. There was sunlight aslant the space. He saw wisps of hay, and swallows swooped in blurred curves through the open windows. I can do this. I can do this. He managed one more step.

Another backward tilt was stopped by the rope but the ladder shuddered and made him queasy. To step from the ladder to the platform, he had to climb the rungs to where his feet were even with the flooring. This meant as far as he could go, to the top of the ladder as it jerked with each thrust of his legs.

Looking over the topmost rung made his stomach tighten again. His palms were wet. He could see that a slip now could make him fall, a long way. Forward, I’ll go into the empty part of the lower mow. Backward, I’ll go all the way to the barn floor. But once I get up there, all I have to do is go out on the walkway and jump. I can do it, he thought, and up he went. He inched both feet to the right side of the rung and got his near foot onto the flooring. He was almost on.

His other foot slipped.

Clutching at the side of the ladder with both hands, he caught himself and half-stepped and half-lurched diagonally backwards to his right, away from both the opening and the platform’s edge. It worked. He sprawled face down onto the flooring. Safe. But the slabs were old and dry. They creaked and groaned. Josh closed his eyes, held his breath and counted. He breathed again before he stopped counting but he got to sixty before he could open his eyes.

When he did, through a gap between the slabs he could see Pompeii’s head. It was jutting from his stall and looked small and toy-like.

Josh struggled to his knees. He had to inch out on the near walkway — and there would be empty spaces both in front and behind him — before he could jump. He looked carefully and thought about what to do next. When he started up the ladder, he had concentrated on getting to its top. He hadn’t stopped to think about what he would have to do after he got there. Now he wasn’t sure that he could even get onto the walkway. But he had made it this far. He’d keep on going.

Josh could barely nerve himself to stand and as he did the flooring creaked once more and he thought one of the slabs started to crack. He braced himself, but it held.

Through the window, he could see the morning sunshine crowning the elm tree at the front of the house. It spilled into the loft, overflowing the space. The swallows were fluttering through the light like small angels. Josh felt better. He had made it all the way up the ladder, into the loft and almost to the walkway.

Brushing himself off, Josh walked carefully to the narrow walkway, took a deep breath and stepped out on it and kept going until he was halfway across. Looking down, he could see plenty of hay in the lower mow. This is it, he thought. This is it. This is it. He bent his knees, stood up again. Concentrating by balling his fists and counting to three, bent his knees and pushed out feet first as he jumped.

The air was a waterfall in his ears and the brown froth of hay coming up to meet him washed away the memory of his brothers’ catcalls.

Josh floundered through the hay to the side of the mow, swung him legs over the edge and dropped the five feet to the barn floor. Pompeii twitched an ear as if applauding.

I’ll climb up and jump again, he thought, then go in for breakfast and tell Rick and Rob what I’ve done.

Then Josh changed his mind. I don’t need to jump again or even tell the twins. I know what I’ve done. That’s all that matters.

He threw an armful of hay into each of the feed bins and went in to the house for his own breakfast.

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Channing Wagg is a Boxborough resident and member of The Write Stuff, a writing group sponsored by the Lincoln Public Library.