Sweat pours down my neck as I crawl on my hands and feet—butt as low to the ground as possible—across the cool floor. My burning quads and aching shoulders actively protest, but it's my abs that are suffering the most. They're ready to surrender, begging me to submit to gravity. And I would, too, if not for the maniacal, almost evil laugh of Ignacio, the muscular drill sergeant with the stop watch.

I steal a glance as he checks the time. He lifts his eyes and we make contact. His smile seems friendly enough, but he just trills in a Mexican accent, "that's right, Rachel! Go, go, go!"

I want to go to sleep. But instead I go to the wall and return across the gym doing torturous walking lunges. And to think I paid for this.

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