I follow at an anticlimactic pace, but Aldo grabs the top of the net and pulls it taut, which helps me pick up speed and finish creditably. Together we jump from the platform into the straw pile. Remembering the way Juan limped after his jump, I duck my head and turn my landing into a forward roll, which garners a few cheers.

We dash toward the water basins. Iván and his tall partner were able to run through them by kicking up their knees, but Aldo’s legs and mine are far too short for that: The edges of the basins nearly reach my crotch. We step gingerly, lifting each leg high, careful not to scrape our thighs. The water sloshes around, threatening our balance, weighing down our pants and our boots, making each step a torture.

But it’s also refreshing and cool. About halfway through, I stop to cup some water with my hands and take a long drink. Aldo pantomimes bathing by splashing his face and his armpits. The crowd laughs.

The truth is I’m stalling, because I still have no idea how we’re going to get over the final barrier.

Aldo and I step from the last basin and drag our dripping selves toward it. My breath is ragged, my hands puckered and raw, as we stare up at the wooden wall in dismay.

“Any ideas?” I ask Aldo.

“My praying seems to have worked so far, so I’m going to keep doing that.”

I’m laughing when the idea strikes. “I’ll be right back!”

Running through sand is hard enough with good food and sleep, and my ankles and lower legs burn with effort as I sprint back toward the weapons rack.

The longbow is still there, but the arrows are too thin and flimsy for what I have in mind. However, behind the quiver of arrows, almost hidden, is a rusty crossbow, and with it a satchel containing exactly six bolts. They are iron tipped and thick as thumbs. They just might work.

I run back to the barrier and take a good, long look, sizing it up.

I’m no expert with bows and crossbows like Fernando and Mara, but I’m competent. If I take my time and steady my breath, I can put those bolts in the general proximity of where I want them.

“Aldo, step away from the wall,” I order, and he complies, already grinning ear to ear.

The first bolt should go about thigh high, enough to be a large but comfortable step. I load the first bolt. Take aim. Inhale.

I release on exhale, and the bow kicks back against my forearm even as the bolt thuds into the wall, burying itself almost two knuckles deep. I grin at this bit of luck. The wall must be made of pine. If it had been hardwood, the bolt would not have embedded itself so far.

I send five more bolts into the wall, staggering left and right, ever upward.

Aldo places his foot on the first one, testing. “Feels solid!” he says. And with that he launches up, grabs the next bolt, and climbs my makeshift ladder until he reaches the top. He pauses there, straddling the edge, just in case I need help.