We're sardine people all smashed in the chain-link elevator. I look down and through the metal gaps see grass and mud blur into abstraction. My knuckles are white from my too-tight grasp. I don't remember clutching nervously at my surroundings, but there are my white knuckles, defying my act of bravery.
And then an acute awareness hits me, twisting my stomach. A truth I've ignored, floating before my eyes, piercing with clarity. I'm afraid of heights. Desperately, paralyzingly, afraid.
"I'm going to throw up." I say.
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