Rocking on blistered heels, I tilted my canteen. The warm cherry Kool-Aid failed to help.
The gloppy fluid only added to the crust on my tongue.
I could stop. The wimp wagon would come. When I started, James was along. But he had
dropped out.
My skin itched. Why had I signed up? Surely, not to raise cash for sad kids. Bake sales
worked better. No, I needed to prove something. I stepped forward.
At the next turn, a limp banner hung over the road. In the crowd, James shouted my
name. I had done it. I wasn’t a loser.