I’m sprinting through the living room with my arms outstretched. The spinny ring flies in my grip, swaying back and forth as I run. It’s so light it feels like a feather in my hands. Each time I swing around, I hear the familiar whoosh that signals the ring has passed by me.

Mom says this is good exercise, but I don’t care about that right now. I just want to see how many times I can spin before dropping out of breath or losing my grip. The room spins a little with every turn, but it’s fun—like riding a merry-go-round.

I try not to look at the wall clock; I know I should be doing homework, but this is so much more exciting. My legs pump faster and faster as I pick up speed. I feel like I’m running circles around my own fears of losing control.

When I finally slow down, panting hard, I count how many times I spun—the number looks ridiculous. I might tell Uncle Joe about this when he comes over later—maybe he’ll spin with me for a little bit too. But right now, it’s just me and the spinny ring, dancing through the air in endless loops.