by Fiona McKay Meric Tuna and me and Tom are racing-not-racing up to the ridge, the wind chasing us up the rock face, tearing our breath, stealing all sound except air, wet and ragged, in and out of our lungs, and I’m always fastest on the cross-country team but today Tom nudges ahead, his fringe scissoring across his forehead, and I want this win, need it, but today the gradient, as Mr. O’Connor, our geography teacher would call it, is too much for me, for my shaking legs —