When I was twelve, my parents took me on a rafting tour down the Colorado River. Every so often, we’d stop and explore side gorges of the Grand Canyon. On one of these expeditions, I strayed from the group. Energetic, enthusiastic, and incredibly stupid, I wandered off alone to go rock climbing.
I found a perfect spot. I’d always been a good climber, and I was confident in my ability to scale the canyon wall. I scaled it alright—got right to the top of a sheer, craggy cliff.
Getting down, though… I hadn’t considered that part of the equation.
This memory of Earth popped into my head, crystal-clear, and now I can’t shake it. It plays in a maddening loop as I smooth my jacket, draw a breath, and leave Asher sheltered behind our smattering of boulders. Pushing through the bramble thicket,
