It’s 9 p.m. on a Thursday and I’m desperately struggling to hang onto a wall. My left leg flails to make contact with something stable, and I hope against hope that no one is watching my ungainly spectacle. The palms of my clamped hands are cracking with the pressure of hanging on, and I fall to back to the ground with a resounding thud. As I dust myself off, glaring at the insurmountable wall in front of me, a hand taps me on the shoulder. “You look confused,” a voice says.
“More like surprised,” I want to correct him.
