The wind swept through her pigtail, caressing her ears, drying her eyes. It was the teacher’s whistle in the air, little footprints in the mulch, semi-permanent chalk against brick in the places rain will never hit. Forty minutes till math, Daisy. The choices were insurmountable: lonely, shivering swings; chilly, hollow slides; towers in need of ruling. But her eyes sought the candy-red monkey bars. The property has the best view, she’d say if she were selling. She wasn’t. She smiles and marches through the gate toward them. It wasn’t summer anymore. She wouldn’t sweat and she wouldn’t fall. She’d flip and flip and flip, but she was getting ahead of herself. Look at the gate, Daisy. Listen for the teacher’s whistle. The monkey bars cool her hands painfully as the ghosts of calluses burn. Her palms have been smooth a long time now. Laptop keys don’t grip nearly as hard as markers and playground equipment do. She hangs, knees bending, limbs locking, teeth grimacing. Her trials, battles fought, mulch money lost and won, surround her. …