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stop at a rock outcropping, clueless about how to scale it, but I learn to pick out the dimples and shelves I can use to help myself up.
    Nick’s above me, his long arms and legs pulling him upward faster than I can go, but he waits for me at every convenient ledge. We’re both panting, our skin shiny. Our stomachs rumble, but we don’t stop for lunch, though it’s after twelve.
    I try not to look out over the valley too much. As long as I focus on the rock beneath my feet, the tree branches jutting over the trail, I’m okay. But when I glance at the drop-off, the view whirls and the sky wheels around me; the mountain seems to fall away from beneath my feet. I fix my eyes on solid rock again, and the world clicks back into place.
    When we break out above tree line, the full force of the rain slashes into us. We retreat into the trees again. Huddling below the signs that say: alpine zone—watch where you step and elevation 4,000 feet—no camping beyond this point, we gasp to catch the breath that the storm has stolen from us.
    “Wow,” I say.
Nick wipes rain off his face.
“This might not be the best idea we’ve ever had,” I say. “You think?” he says, and then we’re both laughing, the
    laughter a relief valve for the nervousness just underneath.
    As we move back onto the trail, the rain blasts us, soaking into every crevice: the opening around my face, the narrow gap around my cuffs, the zippers I opened to let in cool air.
    The top of Eagle Mountain keeps receding. I think each bump in the terrain is going to be the last one, only to top it and find another one higher.
    But in spite of the pounding rain and the ache in my legs, we’re making progress. My own strength is getting me up this mountain. I scale boulder after boulder, joy welling up inside me.
    Nick points out a circular metal survey marker under our feet, and suddenly I realize we’ve reached the top.
    There would probably be a view on a sunnier day. Now I see vague humps of fog-blurred hills and trees below us, but mostly it’s like being inside a cloud. I’m as wet as I can get, with my jacket and pants plastered to my skin, and water dribbling down my face.
    Nick wraps his arms around me, and I hug him back. “Welcome to Eagle,” he says.
“Beautiful weather we’re having.” And for a minute we savor the summit, this giddiness of having nowhere higher to go.
“You’re soaked,” he says in my ear.
“So are you.”
He rubs his wet cheek against mine, laughing softly. At that moment, while we cling to each other, I don’t mind the rain. It dissolves the boundary between my body and the world, the boundary between Nick and me.
     

eight
     
    We find the White Arrow trail on the other side of the mountain and start our descent, clambering over slippery wet boulders. In the steepest places, I sit and scoot down crab-like with my butt, hands, and feet all touching the rock. I couldn’t care less if the Sitting Crab isn’t a graceful position— I’m not about to break my neck.
    I skid once on a wet leaf, and my stomach leaps onto my tongue, but I grip the jutting edge of a boulder to stop myself from hurtling down the trail. As much as I just want to get home where I can dry off, I force myself to go slowly, to concentrate on each step. Perry has told us that most mountainclimbing accidents occur on the way down, and I believe it.
    “Think it’ll rain today, Maggie?” Nick asks.
    We go to Nick’s place, but nobody is home to celebrate our victory. We peel off our outer gear in his kitchen, leaving it in a soggy lump next to the door, and climb rather squishily up to his room. I face the picture and the map of Crystal, thinking: I bet I could climb you, too.
    “I should’ve brought another change of clothes,” I say, pulling my shirt away from my skin. I’ve changed into dry socks and shoes—I always have extra socks when I hike—but I might as well have gone swimming in the rest of my clothes, which didn’t dry much in