Deniece Whitmore had lived sixty-eight years without so much as jaywalking, so when Dr. Peterson told her she needed to “stay active or risk serious health complications,” she knew drastic measures were required.

“Walking is good,” she’d said, scribbling on her chart. “Swimming, light yoga. The key is to keep moving, keep challenging yourself physically.”

What Deniece heard was: “Your sedentary lifestyle is killing you, and only extreme physical challenges can save you now.”

Clearly, she thought, she wants me to become some sort of senior citizen ninja.

Which is how she found herself standing outside “Adrenaline Junkies Adventure Sports” the following Tuesday, clutching her purse with both hands and staring at a poster of someone bungee jumping off a bridge.

“Ma’am? You okay out there? You look like you’re planning a heist.”

A young man with sun-bleached hair and the kind of tan that suggested he’d never worked in an office emerged from the shop. His name tag read “Tim.”

“Oh yes, dear. I’m here for the rock climbing.” Deniece smiled brightly. “I need to challenge myself physically. Doctor’s orders.”

Tim blinked. “Rock climbing. Right. And you’ve done this before?”

“Well, no, but I did reach the top shelf at the grocery store yesterday without a step stool. And I only knocked over two cereal boxes.” She opened her enormous purse and began rummaging. “I brought some things. Bandages, antiseptic, energy bars—the kind with fiber because regularity is important during physical exertion—and I made sandwiches in case anyone gets hungry.”

“Ma’am, that’s really not—”

“Oh, and these.” She pulled out a pair of knee pads decorated with sunflower appliques. “I bedazzled them myself. The craft store lady said sequins weren’t appropriate for ‘death-defying activities,’ but I think she was just jealous.”

Tim rubbed his forehead. In three years of extreme sports instruction, he’d dealt with adrenaline junkies, weekend warriors, and testosterone-fueled college kids. He’d never dealt with someone who looked like she belonged on a cookie tin.

“Maybe we should start with something easier? We have a walking club that meets—”

“Young man,” Deniece interrupted, “I didn’t drive thirty minutes, circle the block six times looking for parking, and pay three dollars for two hours just to walk. My daughter Wendy thinks I should take up birdwatching. Birdwatching! The most dangerous thing about birds is their bathroom habits.”

She fixed him with the look that had once made a grown man return an overdue library book from 1987. “Now, do you want my business, or should I try that place down the street with the lovely skull and crossbones sign?”

Tim glanced back at the shop, where his boss was undoubtedly counting the morning’s disappointing receipts and considering a career in accounting.

“Alright,” he said, his survival instincts clearly malfunctioning. “Let’s get you suited up.”

“Wonderful!” Deniece beamed and pulled out her flip phone—bedazzled to match the knee pads. “Let me just call Wendy and tell her where I am. I promised I’d check in every hour, on the hour, like some sort of geriatric GPS system.”

Tim watched Deniece dial, wondering if his life insurance covered “death by embarrassment.”

“Wendy? It’s Mom. Yes, I’m at the rock climbing place. No, I haven’t fallen yet—I haven’t even started. What do you mean ‘yet’?” Deniece shot Tim an apologetic look. “She has trust issues ever since I tried to fix the garbage disposal with a coat hanger.”

While she argued with her daughter, Tim gathered the climbing gear, trying to find the smallest harness they had. Their extra-small was designed for twelve-year-olds, not grandmothers who insisted on wearing cardigans to extreme sports.

“I have to go, dear. The nice young man is looking at me like I’m a geometry problem he can’t solve.” She snapped the phone shut. “Now, what’s first?”