At Don Roberts Elementary School, the fifth graders would climb on the outer edges of the playground equipment. It was dangerous, but no one had ever gotten hurt, so the teachers mostly let it slide.

Fourth graders rarely took the climb. They were too small, too weak, too scared. It was unheard of.

When I was younger, I had a competitive personality, something that I've been forced to grow out of. But when a fifth grader dared me to take the climb, I knew I had to be the first.

Everything went as well as expected. I traced the entire outer edge without fail. But I turned around to face the yard and accept my praise from the other kids; that is when I lost my balance.

I let go.

I fractured my ulna. My dad didn't scold me until after we left the hospital.

"What were you thinking, Aspen?! You're supposed to be laying low! Blending in! You think people aren't going to remember the girl who fell and broke her arm at recess?"

I played dumb. "Gray can find me because I broke my arm?"

He gave me an exasperated sigh. "Don't call him that. And no, not technically. The point is you have to be careful even in the small things, because then you'll form a habit. If you let the things that don't seem to matter slide — like climbing on the playground — then you're more likely to let bigger and more important things slide. And that's how he'll find you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said, and as soon as my arm healed the fifth graders dared me to jump off the swings. I politely declined, and they called me a chicken. I ran to the bathroom and cried.

This is what I think of when I am unconscious.