He became fixated on his shadow as it moved from a stretch of gray at his right. This is what pushed him, a morbid measurement of time, proof that he was still living and breathing.

Staring at his shadowy compass, if he kept it at his right, the mountain should appear out of the clouds of dust.

He stopped when he realized his shadow, now the size of a plate, was serving him up to a wall. It was sheer, smooth as talc, like a game board hiding foot and handholds. He was in luck too. The wind shaved sand off the wall’s face, exposing ancient scrapes and marks, like two-dimensional cairns.

Frantically stepping into the first hold, he climbed and brushed the wall, exposing small cracks of heaven to grab on to.

Falling twice, he instinctively didn’t recognize this frustration, he hadn’t retrieved the ball yet, and attacked the wall again and again.

The higher he climbed the cooler it got and soon his nostrils filled with the sweet smell of water and wet mud.

Soon he would be seeing red.