by L. J. Bosela One misstep and she’d tumble, down the far embankment and into the river, to her death. She hated heights; they made her stomach feel like a parfait that’s just gotten pulsed in a blender. But she always found herself climbing things, going to stand on the edge. Just to prove that fear was not her master. Her toes curled at the edges of the crumbling rock as pebbles and clumps of dirt cascaded down and splashed unseen and unheard in the foaming rapids below her feet. “Kahlia!” her brother’s voice screamed over the tumult of the water below them. “Get back from the edge! I told…