My eyes are locked on my gloved fingers grasping the 4 inch plank between my feet.
My focus shifts past the mud on the beam to the rope cargo net and then the ground two stories below.
“No, Jo, you have to stand up. We have to go across.”
I look up into his eyes. His jokers cap long gone but the jovial still framing his face.
“I know but…” my voice reverberates in my head with the echoes of fear and frustration which drown out the wind, “Ben, I can’t feel my feet.”
We spend a beat or two looking at each other. Then he says, “ok” with authority and conviction and reaches out his hand to take mine.
