But I don’t. All the recruits yell encouragement as I shimmy up the wall like it’s nothing.

Together, we slip over the side and hang, feet dangling, then allow ourselves to drop into the sand. I collapse, gasping for breath. But Aldo jumps up and bows as though he’s accepting laurels. The crowd screams approval.

Aldo helps me to my feet, and we turn to face Sergeant DeLuca.

A hush falls over the arena.

The sergeant regards us, lips pursed, brows knitted. At last he says, “Congratulations, Recruit Aldo and Recruit Red. You’ve achieved the slowest obstacle-course time in the history of Royal Guard training.”

The crowd boos, and it takes a moment for me to realize they’re not booing Aldo and me but the sergeant.

DeLuca holds up his hand. “However! It was also the most innovative. You’ve given your trainers much to consider.”

With that, he signals that Valentino and one of his ducklings are up next, and Aldo and I move to rejoin our fellow recruits.

On his way to the sway beam, Valentino says, “Nice job, Red!” and gives my back a hard thump.

I respond with a cheery “Good luck!” But a curl of dread is making me queasy. Valentino is listing a little to the left, his gaze unfocused, his skin sallow. Something is deeply wrong; I’m sure of it. Maybe it’s his kidney, from when I elbowed him. I resist the urge to call out to him to be careful. Instead, I yell, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” because he cheered me on without hesitation, and I owe him one.

“Oléeee!” his ducklings respond.

Valentino and his partner stand before the sway beam, awaiting the sergeant’s signal. Iván sidles up to me. His eyes are shadowed, his mouth on the edge of a frown. “Something’s wrong with Valentino,” he whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Aldo says. “I mean, he’s the son of the richest conde in the kingdom. Everyone loves him. They can’t cut him, no matter what. Right?”

Sergeant DeLuca gives the signal, and Valentino and his partner dash for the sway beam. Valentino’s course is wobbly; he lags behind right away.

His partner climbs onto the beam, places his feet just so, spreads out his arms for balance, and gradually pushes up to a standing position.

“Olé, Sancho!” Valentino yells cheerily.

“Is he drunk?” Iván says.

Sancho is nearly to the end of the beam when Valentino reaches it, grasps it, tries to climb on.

His effort makes the beam sway wildly in its rope, and Sancho flails a moment before tumbling off into the sand. He scrambles to his feet, tries to remount, but he can’t get good purchase because Valentino is still trying to climb on.

“Valentino!” he yells. “Stop!”

Valentino backs away, looking baffled. Sancho climbs back on, finishes the beam walk, jumps off. “All right, now you can go,” he says, beckoning to his friend.

Valentino tries again. His foot slips off before he can leverage himself up. He places both hands on the beam and tries again, but the beam recoils, spearing him in the chest and knocking him backward into the sand.