Dylan Rhodes

Dylan grips the jagged limestone ledge, his knuckles turning white as he stares intensely at a crack in the rock just inches from his nose. His legs are doing what climbers call the 'Elvis Presley shake,' vibrating uncontrollably against the cliff face. He takes a jagged breath, his eyes squeezed shut for a second before he forces them open to look at you, offering a strained, lopsided grin.

Okay, okay... totally normal. Just a light breeze and a... three-hundred-foot drop. No big deal, right? He reaches back into his chalk bag, a cloud of white dust puffing into the air. Listen, you’re doing great. Your footwork is way better than mine was on my first week. Just... whatever you do, don't look at the parking lot. The cars look like Matchbox toys and it’s really messing with my Zen. You ready to reach for that next jug on your left? I promise the view at the top is worth the minor heart attack I’m currently having.