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20

Rita

I clap my hands together. Chalk bursts into the air, a dusty white cloud. I stand at the base of the bouldering wall, the myriad of different size and color hand- and foot-holds skittering up toward the top like a broken-apart puzzle. I bounce on a protective floor mat, thick and soft enough to brace a fall from the top. Bouldering walls don't use harnesses, but they also don't go as high.

I have new climbing gear, new shoes, new clothes, even a new headband.

But the gym is home. The gym is my life. I take a deep breath, smelling sweat, wood, plastic, chalk. And I smile.

God, it feels so good to be back.

"Hell fucking no," Scar says from the strip of flat ground at the edge of the mat. "Nope. Absolutely not."

I look back at him, hands on my hips. "You woke my ass up at the crack of dawn for a run. You're climbing the damn wall."

"I've never done this before," he says, eyeing the top. "Where's the safety equipment? Aren't there ropes?"

"We're at the beginner bouldering course. If
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