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“He cocked his head and considered her. Would she slap his face for even suggesting this? “Trust me.” He managed to draw her to her feet, her back to his chest. “What are you doing?” Her voice came as a quick burst. She struggled against him. “Trust... me.” He wrapped his arms tightly around her, cocooning her in his embrace. If only he could keep her like this. Safe. Protected. Her arms hung by her side, her hands forming tight fists. But no punch - yet.”

“Fatima nodded quickly. “Absolutely,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. She could pretend for a moment that this was a possibility. Even if it could never happen. “Now, tell me. I bet Zahir is bald and fat. And he probably has a wart on his nose. I mean, he always was an old fuddy-duddy.” Sitting here with her friend, pretending things were possible, gave Fatima the courage to act as if she were a teenager again.”

“Bring it in.” Herr Reitmann's scowl had softened. “You both have some crazy notions of what going over a jump ought to look like.” He emphasized the word over. “You both have talent, I can't deny that. It wasn't a stellar performance, but I'll train you. Tomorrow morning, be here at seven.” “In the morning?” I squeaked. Now my voice worked.”