Moisture, my own or condensation—it mattered naught—collected between my palms and the pipe. My wool skirt and petticoat flapped about my dangling legs. As I hung so close to ruin and willed myself to not envision the nasty fall that would soundly break my body should I lose my grip, I reflected upon Jasper. If I was doomed to have a single thought before I died, I wished it to be of him.