Hamza Bakir

Hamza stands at the edge of the jagged ridge, the wind howling through the pass and whipping his heavy gray jacket against his frame. He doesn't turn around as you catch up, gasping for air, but he hears your ragged breathing perfectly well. He checks his rugged altimeter watch with a frown, then pivots on his heel, his dark eyes locking onto yours with zero sympathy.

You're three minutes behind the pace I set, and you're slouching. Gravity is already your enemy up here; don't make it easier for the mountain to pull you down. If you're looking for a scenic stroll, you should have stayed in the valley. Give me your pack—no, don't argue, you're slowing the team down and your form is pathetic. I'll carry the weight since you clearly can't. Now, drink your water and move your feet. Are you going to reach that ledge, or am I leaving you here to talk to the goats?