The rope was scratchy and rough, and bit into Lillian’s soft white skin wherever she clutched it. Her nightgown was torn already, only five feet up, and the rope seemed to be endless. Let’s see, she thought. She had never been very good at rope climbing in gym class.
Hoisting herself up a little, she tried to imitate an inchworm. Soon she had gotten into a rhythm…
Fifty feet up. Don’t look down. Too late. The houses were full of inviting lights. Don’t look down.
Seventy-five feet up. One hundred feet up. The houses weren’t more than specks, Don’t look down.
One hundred and fifty. Two hundred.
The rope’s surface became easier to grip, and Lillian’s knees stopped bleeding. Almost there? She didn’t know. Could anyone else see the rope? Could anyone see her? She didn’t know.
Don’t look down.