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Two hours. Two hours of brutality, insanity, treating me like a pack mule rather than a teenage girl. Making me haul a sled piled high with weight—including the hundred-pound Red lying on top of the load. Making me run with a pack on my back that’s so heavy, for all I know Ferguson himself is secretly hanging on. And climbing up that ridiculous rope, hand over hand, my legs frogging out so I can grip with my feet. Then climbing back down it, slowly, until my fingers feel permanently curled into claws.
I’m not saying Halli’s body isn’t up to it—it’s up to all of that and more. And I’m not saying I don’t like it, because in a miraculous, strange way, I do.
Because there’s something about that kind of hard physical labor that makes your brain relax for a while. All you can think about i
