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looked back toward Maggie. “The precise reason I love climbing is because I could die at any moment, which makes me feel so alive.”
    “Makes perfect sense,” Maggie said, “but don’t try explaining that to a non-climber. Our girlfriends would have us committed.”
    “Right. So how come we aren’t involved with other climbers?”
    Maggie shrugged. “I came on to you about ten years ago and you turned me down. Remember?”
    “Oh yeah.” I slithered another eight feet to the left, found a delicate ledge to stand on, and stopped to put another piece in. “You aren’t still holding that against me, are you?”
    “No,” she called. “In fact, I’m very glad.”
    “Humph,” I said, but we both knew the conversation was merely to keep me company while we were still in sight of each other. As soon as I climbed around the corner, I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to and I’d be on my own. Just me and my devilishly inventive mind.
    I finished the traverse and was approaching the corner. My left foot slipped a few inches, but then it held. The next move was the crux and then I’d be around. I turned my face toward Maggie. “Once my murder trial is over,” I called, “let’s climb as much as possible. It’s the only way I’ll ever improve.”
    “I’m going to Nicaragua, remember?”
    I slid my arm around the corner searching blindly for something to grab onto. “Oh right. Nicaragua. Weren’t you supposed to go this winter?”
    “Yes, at the beginning of February,” she answered, “but we had to postpone it. There was too much fighting.”
    “What’s the name of your group again?” I was still groping for my next hold.
    “The Boulder-Jalapa friendship brigade.” She paused. “Just make the move, Rachel. It’s not as bad as you think.”
    I hugged the wall and edged around the corner. She was right. After getting another piece in, I stopped to consider the steep vertical crack above me. Maggie had described it as eighty feet of sustained crack climbing.
    “Eek,” I said out loud, which would have been funny if someone else had been there to hear it. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to look around, and appreciate the spectacular view.
    We’d started our approach to the climb at eight thirty when it was still quite chilly in order to get down before dark. I glanced at my watch. It was already a quarter to one. Time flies when you’re busy squandering adrenaline.
    Okay, baby doll, time to start moving. I shinnied up about eight feet, fumbled around on my harness until I found the piece I wanted, unclipped it with sweaty fingers, and stuck it in the crack. As I clipped in, I rolled my neck, and made the mistake of looking down. Jesus Christ. Maybe I only loved climbing in retrospect, after it was all over and we were safely on the ground. Maybe I only loved the idea of climbing. All right, that’s enough; best not to think. I nodded (you can do things like that when you’re all alone), then hauled myself up the next forty feet without incident, singing an old Pete Seeger tune, “If I Had a Hammer.”
    I was just pulling up the rope to clip into a small cam when I heard a voice from somewhere above me scream, “Rock!” The climbers ahead of us must have accidentally dislodged it. Immediately, I pressed my body as close to the crack as I could and simultaneously felt a large boulder whiz past my right shoulder. Without thinking, I’d let go of the extra rope and grabbed onto my piece. A second later, I heard the boulder smash into the ledge below me.
    “Are you okay?” Maggie yelled.
    “Missed me,” I yelled back.
    “What?”
    “I’m fine,” I yelled louder.
    “All right, good.”
    My right hand was bleeding—I must have scraped it against the rock—but other than that, I was unscathed. I clipped in and tried to stop myself from imagining what might have happened if I hadn’t grabbed the cam, or if the boulder had fallen a few inches to the left. You’re fine, I told myself,