“What’s it like?” A girl in a leotard pulls herself up onto the narrow trapeze platform. She clutches at the top rungs of the ladder, glancing uneasily at the dirt twenty feet below. Her outfit is that of the contortionists.

“What’s what like?” I ask, sliding over to let her cling to the one post on the platform. She grabs it, holding tight as she raises her eyes.

“You know, to be an aerialist.” She gestures out at the dim space around us. There are faint silhouettes of my elements hanging in the shadows. I grab the trapeze hooked on the pole and step off the platform, swinging across the tent. At the apex, I release the bar. Her gasp resonates in the quiet. I quickly twist around and grasp the bar again, then glide back. As the rickety platform nears, I reach out and touch my feet down smoothly. The trapeze clinks back on its hook as I turn to face her.

She’s still clinging to the pole, eyes wide.

“I suppose it’s a bit like freedom,” I say.