Reach Up Your Hand
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Reach Up Your Hand
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Her tennis shoes were perched precariously on the crumbling edge of the Mayan step. One more inch forward, and she wasn't sure if she’d find stone or sky beneath her feet. Maybe the endless rounds of chemo and radiation had drained more of her strength than she’d realized. The climb that once felt like defiance now felt like defeat. But there was no going back. She was out of options.
Her biggest mistake had been looking down.
Now vertigo clawed at her senses, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She pressed her palms flat against the rough stone, trying to will herself still. No amount of bravery could erase the fact that she had misjudged—again.
Then she heard David’s voice, sharp and urgent, cutting through the jungle's hum.
"Lift your arms!" he shouted. "I'm going to grab you and pull you up."
It should’ve sounded heroic. It should’ve filled her with relief. Instead, it struck her like the punch line of a bad joke.
She glanced upward and muttered under her breath, half in fear, half in bitter humor: “Is anyone else up there?”