It鈥檚 a late May afternoon at the South Boise Women鈥檚 Correctional Center (), a minimum-security center on an empty stretch of road in the sage-covered hills outside the Idaho city. Jessica Halbesleben, a 45-year-old inmate, meets with her three apprentices, Destiny, Robin, and Jamie (who asked to have their last names withheld), in the unit where she鈥檚 been living for the past three years. Under Halbesleben鈥檚 guidance, the trio鈥攔anging in age from 24 to 36鈥攃heck out bike tools in the prison鈥檚 lobby, then walk across the parking lot to a shed built specifically to give them a space to repair children鈥檚 bikes.

The women are part of a 200-person program called Shifting Gears that has inmates repairing bikes for donation. In exchange for their work, they get their own bike, helmet, lock, and light, which they can pick up upon release. Halbesleben has built 66 bikes since she joined Shifting Gears in the summer of 2016, just a few months after it was launched by the (BBP), a nonprofit whose goal is to get everyone in the city鈥攏o matter their income鈥攐n two wheels.

鈥淚t鈥檚 the putting it back together that I fell in love with,鈥� Halbesleben says. 鈥淔or me, it was a Zen experience. You get this bike that鈥檚 all dirty and rusty and has flat tires. You take something that鈥檚 broken and turn it into something that looks brand new.鈥�

On this spring day, the women work in silence, stripping down the donated bikes, cleaning each part, adjusting components, then reassembling everything in a process that takes about 2.5 hours. Later that week, the refurbished bikes will be picked up by BBP employees to be distributed to Boise children in need, the majority of them refugees from Syria. (Due in part to the city鈥檚 low cost of living, friendly climate, and welcoming community, Boise has one of the largest per capita refugee populations in the country. According to the , more Syrian refugees live in the Idaho city than in New York City and Los Angeles combined.)

鈥淭he impact we make is very tangible,鈥� says Jimmy Hallyburton, co-founder and executive director of the 16-person BBP. 鈥淎 broken bike comes in by donation, a volunteer fixes it, and it goes into the hands of a smiling kid.鈥�

Hallyburton grew up in Boise on a dairy farm and fought fires with the Idaho City Hotshot Crew before he co-founded the Boise Bicycle Project in 2007 in a former homeless shelter. At BBP鈥檚 DIY bike shop in downtown Boise, it鈥檚 common to find a cyclist wrenching on a $10,000 triathlon bike next to a Syrian refugee looking for a new commuter to ride while finding work. Since its inception, BBP has fixed and distributed more than 12,000 bikes and donated more than 5,000 to kids. Last year, the organization created a bicycle transportation program for adult refugees that taught more than 2,000 people about bike repair and safety.

The goal is to reduce transportation barriers鈥攁nd few face as many of those as people just released from prison. According to the , for the some 600,000 inmates released from federal and state prisons annually, obtaining a state-issued driver鈥檚 license can be one of the biggest roadblocks to transitioning back into society.

So Hallyburton came up with the idea for Shifting Gears and pitched it to the director of the Idaho Department of Correction, who loved it. Different locations vied for the program, but the SBWCC eventually won the bid. The facility鈥檚 warden offered the project to Corporal Laura Carlson, who volunteered to run it. Carlson worked with BBP and scheduled training days with Lucky Kelley, a volunteer mechanic in his sixties who still comes to the facility every Saturday to swap bikes and train participants. Five inmates鈥攊ncluding Halbesleben鈥攚ere selected to start the program. Participants shadow a mentor for three days before they become trainers. 鈥淢ost come into it thinking it鈥檚 something to do with their time, and they don鈥檛 anticipate how much it will change their lives,鈥� Carlson says.

Take Destiny, for instance, who wrote about Shifting Gears in her exit survey: 鈥淚 stopped looking forward to positive things in life the day I lost my little girl. It took me a whole year to come back to reality. Joining Shifting Gears is the best decision I鈥檝e made since then. Helping a little girl ride the bike that I fixed made me look for a brighter tomorrow. The program opened my eyes and helped me realize what I want to do with my life: get out and work or volunteer with kids who are sick, in need, in the system, or even just lonely.鈥�

Several inmates released from SBWCC have come downtown to BPB to work on their children鈥檚 bikes. 鈥淲hen the participants are released, we hope that some of them use the BPB as a support system,鈥� Hallyburton says. 鈥淲e hope they realize this is a safe space and a place to be surrounded by positive people.鈥�

When Halbesleben is paroled from prison, most likely in January, she鈥檒l have not only a bike that matches her height waiting for her at BBP, but also an opportunity to apply for a position at the organization. She dreams of starting her own nonprofit that provides school clothes and supplies to underserved teens. 鈥淏efore I came to prison, I was locked in my own world,鈥� Halbesleben says. 鈥淗aving a chance to see what other people in my community and around the world are going through has been eye-opening. For me, it鈥檚 just been a huge appreciation for humanity as a whole. I can鈥檛 wait to get out there and be a part of it.鈥�

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We charged up the final ascent of 13,041-foot , about seven miles east of Vail, Colorado. My new running partner, Merle Hamburger鈥攁 one-year-old blue Australian shepherd so nicknamed because my four-year-old son, Axel, couldn鈥檛 pronounce the dog's given last name, Haggard鈥攕eemed unfazed by the previous eight miles we鈥檇 covered. I also felt strong, energized by the clear Rocky Mountain air and endless blue sky. It was Father鈥檚 Day 2017, and I was set to return home to Axel, my nine-year-old daughter, Lily, and my wife, Susan, by noon. Merle and I had cruised up meandering, buff singletrack and firm, sun-cupped snow above treeline, and now, ahead of schedule, we could take our time on the exposed alpine ridge, taking in the views of the neighboring 13ers鈥擬ount Valhalla, Snow Peak, and the mountains of the rugged Gore Range.

As I reached the summit, I heard a short yelp but assumed Merle would be seconds behind me, as he had been all morning. I snapped a panorama of the view for my family, called out to the dog, then tucked my phone in my pack and headed back down the trail. Merle was nowhere to be seen. 鈥淢erle! Merle!鈥� I called. 鈥淲here are you?鈥� I felt a tickle of panic in my throat as I threaded my way down the ridge, still seeing no signs of him. But he was strong and young and athletic and invincible. He must be fine, I reasoned.

Then, several hundred feet farther down, I saw his paw prints on a five-foot-wide strip of snow at the top of a steep couloir on the north side of the ridge. I cautiously followed them to the edge until they disappeared entirely in the hard, steep chute. About 800 feet below, the couloir ended abruptly in a boulder field and a massive cliff. Below that, I could see a wide, empty, snow-covered basin. There was no sign of Merle in the rock field or the bowl. I could still hear that last yelp in my mind, and now I realized what it had signaled.

Merle was gone.

Merle and I had started the day at 4 a.m. at our home in Eagle, Colorado, where I work as a freelance model and actor. I鈥檇 stacked my running clothes next to the bed the night before and filled my pack with water bottles, trail food, and a can of sardines鈥攎y go-to for big days in the mountains. It would be my first big run in the Gore Range this summer and my first big adventure with Merle.

We鈥檇 bought the 40-pound blue-and-brown-eyed blue merle Aussie six months earlier from a breeder in Durango. Merle quickly proved himself to be a phenomenal running partner, and I marveled at the efficiency of his gait, cadence, and indefatigable attitude. On our backyard trails, he always ran at my heels, offering reassurance in an area where mountain lions are common and known to attack from behind. Merle could bang out 15 miles easy.

That morning, we drove 36 miles from our house to the in East Vail. I鈥檇 grown up in Illinois, but as a kid made frequent trips to Vail, where my late father had a house. I鈥檇 hiked this trail every year since I was seven, and it had always been a special place for my dad, a mountaineer and ultrarunner. He鈥檇 take me and my younger sister, Celenda, up the eight miles to Deluge lake鈥攖raining, he called it, for our annual summit of Mount of the Holy Cross, the peak where I would spread his ashes in 2002, after he died from complications associated with his cancer.

Merle and I set off, and by 7 a.m., we鈥檇 reached the Swedish Grave, a historic site four miles into the route. The sun had yet to reach us, and I took a favorite alternate path that ascended steeply to tree line, then skirted an alpine cirque on its way toward Deluge Lake and Grand Traverse Peak, a pyramid-shaped mountain flanked by three major drainages. The still-firm snow provided excellent footing, except along the rotten edges at the occasional talus outcroppings. We climbed steadily uphill, contouring the basin. When we reached the base of the peak and began the tedious scree ascent, Merle struggled a few times, but I let him navigate on his own and return to my heel.

I hadn鈥檛 thought twice about taking Merle up Grand Traverse; in fact, I expected him to beat me to the summit. Which is why when, even as I stood above the steep couloir, I still thought, 鈥淚t鈥檚 going to be OK.鈥� I knew the summit was the only spot on the trail where I got cell service, so I called Susan, panicked. 鈥淢erle fell! I don鈥檛 know what the fuck happened,鈥� I shouted. 鈥淚鈥檓 going for him. It鈥檚 OK. I鈥檓 OK.鈥�

Then I saw something running in the basin below me. 鈥淗oly shit, there he is! Oh my god! I鈥檓 OK. I need to go.鈥� 鈥淥K, be safe,鈥� was all Susan had time to say before I hung up and ran down the ridge. Merle was sprinting downhill, away from me. I couldn鈥檛 follow Merle鈥檚 nearly vertical route without technical climbing gear, so I needed to find a safer way into the basin. The next couloir had a massive cornice hanging ominously above it. I debated whether to try my luck, but I knew if the ice fell, I鈥檇 be dragged through a cheese grater of rock. The next gully looked better鈥攆ourth-class climbing down wet lichen. I downclimbed several hundred feet before it cliffed out. 鈥淕od fucking dammit,鈥� I thought. As I climbed back up, I resolved not to die that day. My kids don鈥檛 deserve this, I thought.

Several hundred feet farther down the ridge, I found a steep, off-camber couloir filled with rotten snow. Not ideal, but workable. I turned around and carefully started descending backward. With each step, I punched my fists wrist-deep into the snow and kicked my feet to form steps till my toes started to bleed. A fall would send me tomahawking down 150 vertical feet to the rock and ice below. As soon as the pitch allowed, I turned and glissaded precariously through the apron and into the basin. The wrong basin, I realized too late. Merle had fallen into the basin to the west. I continued down the snowfield and out to where I鈥檇 meet Merle if he had continued to descend. There was no sign of him. I started to run up the snow-covered bowl toward where I鈥檇 last seen him. I felt like my head was going to explode and my lungs burned, but all I could think was, 鈥淕et the hell up there.鈥�

After 30 minutes of hiking up the bowl, I saw Merle standing on a large rock outcropping. Relief washed over me. 鈥淢erle, come here, buddy. Good dog. I鈥檓 so sorry,鈥� I called. But he ran away. I didn鈥檛 blame him. I鈥檇 taken him on a selfish pursuit to a selfish place. I鈥檇 pushed him too far.

I followed Merle up the basin. Soon, I was close enough to see that he looked oddly swollen, covered with lacerations, and his gait was hobbled and stiff. When I got to within a few feet of him, he dove into a crack at the edge of a talus field. I grabbed his back legs for a moment, but he squirmed away from me, deep into a subterranean pocket within the boulders. I started throwing rocks and moving snow away from the crack鈥檚 entrance, until two backyard-grill-size boulders slid together, clamping my ring finger between them. I yanked out my hand and saw the nail was smashed and spurting blood. I threw on a glove from my pack to contain the flow, then kept digging. A few minutes later, I鈥檇 cleared enough snow to stick my head down the crack, but it was too narrow for me to wiggle my shoulders through. I peered down into the darkness. I could hear the jingle of Merle鈥檚 collar, but I couldn鈥檛 see him.

I yelled, alternating between angry and nearly hysterical to calm and coaxing. No response. I decided to give him space. Maybe he was OK and my panic was freaking him out. I opened the can of sardines and left them as a lure at the mouth of the cave. While I waited, I went to the scene of the fall. Above, I saw the path Merle had taken: He鈥檇 slid on the upper snowfield, fallen off a 40-foot cliff, then rolled down another 100-foot cliff to the lower snowfield where we now stood. How did he walk away from this? I thought.

I returned to the crack, leaned in, and screamed his name again. Inside, it smelled wet. After a decade of archery hunting, I knew the smell鈥攊t was as if an elk had been field dressed and the organs and bodily fluid were leaking on the ground. It smelled like death. I spent another hour crouched outside the cave, until the jingle of the collar and Merle鈥檚 deep breathing stopped.

It was late afternoon, and I worried about losing daylight. I was on the wrong side of a big mountain, many miles from home, and not prepared to spend the night outside. I packed up, traversed the basin, descended a rotten snowfield, then found my way to the base of the couloir I鈥檇 come down. I climbed the melting snowpack as quickly as I could, reusing my kicked steps from the descent. When I reached the saddle, I phoned Susan.

鈥淚鈥檓 okay, Sus, but I鈥檓 walking down alone.鈥�

鈥淚s he dead?鈥�

鈥渊别补丑.鈥�

Then I ran away, back down the trail. I didn鈥檛 know that Lily and Axel had heard me through our car鈥檚 Bluetooth system. After I hung up, they burst into tears.

I鈥檝e always owned a dog. Each accompanied me into the mountains, where, bounding off-leash, they seemed protected by an invincible athleticism. Merle, more than any of the others, was bred for the trail. I had assumed the rugged Aussie would take to the high alpine intuitively. But the reality is that almost no one thinks about training their dogs for the mountains.

In potentially deadly terrain, it鈥檚 critical that humans help dogs understand their limits, says Amber Quann, who runs in Fort Collins. She helps owners and dogs prepare for outdoor adventures through relationship building and body conditioning classes. 鈥淢y dog will push himself to his limits all the time. One day, we were playing ball in the snow for 45 minutes, and while he showed no signs of slowing down, I noticed one stutter step before he resumed his normal stride. I flipped him over, then noticed his paw was cut.鈥�

Dogs can鈥檛 talk to us, but they have other ways of communicating that we need to pay attention to. It鈥檚 up to us to learn our pet鈥檚 idiosyncrasies. Of course, it鈥檚 difficult to tune into a dog鈥檚 subtle behavior changes when you鈥檙e listening to a podcast or chatting with your climbing partner. 鈥淚t鈥檚 as simple as putting your phone down and being present in the moment,鈥� Quann says.

That communication leads to trust, which is the other part of taking a dog into the mountains. 鈥淵ou have to trust your dog to make good decisions by giving her a safe amount of freedom and not always interrupting her natural behaviors,鈥� Quann says. 鈥淲e want owners to help their dogs but not micromanage them.鈥� The bottom line, she says, is if an outing will be more stressful with your dog, leave her at home. 鈥淵ou need to be OK putting the dog鈥檚 best interest first.鈥�

I knew Susan questioned whether I鈥檇 done enough to keep Merle safe. My possible carelessness gnawed at me, too, so I called our longtime vet and friend, Charlie Meynier, owner of , to try to get some closure. He assured me I did everything I could to save Merle. 鈥淗e crawled into that cave to secure shelter, which is typical behavior for a dog in distress who is on the verge of dying鈥攖hey hide and hunker down,鈥� he said. 鈥淗is body and brain went into survival mode.鈥�

Three weeks later, on July 8, local real estate agent Dana Dennis Gumber was preparing a listing in East Vail, near the Deluge Lake trailhead, when she noticed a ragged-looking dog hanging near the property鈥檚 deck. She assumed the animal belonged to the landscapers working on the complex, but when she returned to the house two hours later, the crew had left and the dog was curled up by the front door. Gumber had noticed him limping earlier, and now, as she approached, she saw that he was filthy, weak, and skeletally thin. She ushered the dog into her car, then brought him to her Eagle Vail home for food and water.

Miraculously, Gumber found that the dog still had a collar. That afternoon, she left a voicemail on my cell: 鈥淚 have Merle. Please call me.鈥�

I鈥檇 left town a few days earlier for a work trip to Austria to model in a commercial for a river cruise company. I got the call as cameras were rolling and immediately Facetimed Susan back home, where it wasn鈥檛 yet dawn. Neither of us knew what the message meant. Susan assumed it was some kind of sick prank, but she agreed to call the woman back that morning. A few hours later, we had an answer: Merle was alive, Susan said. 鈥淚鈥檓 getting him this afternoon.鈥� When she got to Gumber鈥檚 house, she collapsed to the floor as soon as she saw Merle, gently stroking his battered body. He seemed to recognize her, though his wandering eyes made her think he鈥檇 suffered some kind of brain damage.

Susan immediately drove him to the Vail Valley Animal Hospital, where emergency veterinarian Rebecca Hall found that Merle had two detached retinas, a punctured lung, facial lacerations, sores on his hind legs, and had lost about 12 pounds鈥攁lmost a third of his body weight. His stool showed that he鈥檇 survived on pine needles and berries. He was tattered, but remarkably, he didn鈥檛 need stitches and none of his bones were broken. Hall was amazed. 鈥淗ouse pets don鈥檛 always have the smarts to survive in the wild, but Merle has some herding breed in him,鈥� she said. 鈥淗e鈥檚 certainly intelligent, has some survival instincts, and had a strong will to live.鈥�

Merle had fallen more than 140 vertical feet. He had hunkered down in a cave, likely gone into a coma, then woken up and, seriously injured, covered 20 miles in 20 days to return home. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 hear a lot of stories about dogs surviving in the wilderness,鈥� Quann says. 鈥淏ut herding breeds are very driven and tough. They possess extra motivation. His return was most likely testament to his positive association with home. These dogs are incredibly bonded to their owners.鈥�

Quann says Merle likely followed well-established human smells on the trail to get back to civilization. Humans are decidedly limited in the olfactory and auditory departments, so we鈥檒l never truly grasp how strong those senses are in a dog. 鈥淲e can鈥檛 wrap our brains around how easy it is for a dog to follow a scent using such a small amount of odor or to hear traffic miles away,鈥� Quann says. Plus, after a week in the wilderness, Merle鈥檚 senses most likely sharpened. 鈥淚鈥檇 guess it was this combination, plus intuition and just some good luck, that got him home,鈥� she says.

Over the next week, while I was still away, Merle recovered beautifully. His wandering eyes straightened, he gained weight, and his gait returned to normal. Axel and Lily, who now fully believe in miracles, spent every moment with their best friend. When I got home just after midnight later that month, I walked through the front door, anxious to see Merle. Would he run from me again? I entered our living room, then kneeled down and called him to me. He gave a quick bark before lowering his ears, tucking in his tail, and wiggling onto my lap. He clawed my chest like he wanted to climb on top of my shoulders and kissed my face.

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Lots of depressing statistics plague the Magnolia State. Poverty, unemployment, obesity, and teen pregnancy rates rank among the highest in the country, while education equity and life expectancy are at聽rock bottom. More than 40 percent of school-age聽children are overweight or obese,聽, an annual report funded by the , a national public-health philanthropy. Almost that many live under the poverty line.聽

Selena Swartzfager, 47, sees that聽data come to life every day while running the , a non-profit working to increase the state residents鈥櫬爀conomic and financial literacy. But, as founder and coach of the one-year-old , she also sees the potential to combat some of those issues among a tiny sliver of the state鈥檚 population. The mother of two lives in a suburb of Jackson and founded the bike team in part so that her 15-year-old son, who was racing in the local adult league, could race against other teens. But she also believed in the transformative power of the bike for kids who might otherwise聽have no outlet to get outside and be active.

So Swartzfager, who describes herself as a聽beginner-intermediate mountain biker, set out to get her coaching certification from the聽 (NICA). 鈥淚鈥檓 not fast, but I love it,鈥� she says. She then recruited two other people鈥擲hannon Estes, an engineer and category聽1 mountain-bike racer, and assistant coach Alison Harkey, a board member of the local mountain bike association鈥攖o help her lead the Mississippi Blues.聽Both volunteer their time, which amounts to about four hours per week for Harkey and double that for Estes, plus weekend travel to races that are up to five hours away, despite not having children on the team.聽聽

In spring 2017, the trio聽traveled聽with 11 student athletes from 11 high schools across Mississippi聽to the nearest NICA sanctioned high school races, all three hours away in Alabama. 鈥淲e looked like the Clampets, showing up for our first race with mismatched camo tents and a bike rack built out of PVC,鈥� says Swartzfager. Despite entering the race without any expectations, the team pulled a couple top 10 results. 鈥淭he electricity and excitement of a NICA race is contagious,鈥� says聽Swartzfager. 鈥淓veryone was cheering each other on and telling post-race stories.鈥澛�

In 2016, the Mississippi State Department of Health created an . One of its goals was to increase the proportion of people engage in aerobic physical activity on a regular basis. The plan cited a 2011 American Heart Association review that found every dollar spent on building bike trails and walking paths could save three dollars in medical expenses. Yet聽Mississippi trails far behind Alabama in terms of mountain-bike culture and racing. The website lists 407 miles of trail and 34 rides in Alabama compared to 173 miles of trail and 14 rides in Mississippi. The boasts 26 high school mountain bike teams, a five-race series that draws more than 250 middle school and high school racers, and an 18-member management team. Mississippi? The Blues Composite team remains the only bike program in the state for teens.

No one works harder to close the bike infrastructure聽gap than the聽Tri-County Mountain Bike Association (TCMBA), an IMBA-affiliated mountain-bike club based in Jackson, Mississippi. The club鈥攚hich has grown from 30 to 400 members in the last six years, according to TCMBA聽President Jeremy Polk鈥攄evelops trails and organizes group rides. It鈥檚 also served as an engine to get the new high school team off the ground.聽鈥淐reating a NICA team and bringing the program into your state takes someone or several someones being really involved,鈥� says聽Polk, who owns聽Bicycle Revolution, a bike shop in Gluckstadt and the hub of Mississippi mountain biking. 鈥淪omeone has to have the passion and ability to do this full-time. Hopefully the composite team gets some kids hooked and their parents hooked. We need it bad. We need it for the overall mental and physical health of our kids and families.鈥�

The Mississippi Blues Composite Mountain Bike team started its second race season in late February 2018. It still operates solely with a Facebook page and fewer than 20 student athletes, but it鈥檚 becoming increasingly organized. This year鈥檚 team has practiced twice a week since December, including weekend trail rides and weekly spin classes at Bicycle Revolution.聽Swartzfager says the next step is better marketing. 鈥淚 know there are kids in the area who would want to join if they knew we existed,鈥� she says. The group currently recruits via word of mouth. 鈥淛ust the other night, I was at a work event and met a parent of a fifth grader,鈥澛燬wartzfager聽says. 鈥淚 immediately asked if she liked riding a bike and offered to pick her up for practice next year.鈥�

Cycling isn鈥檛 on the radar of many football-obsessed Mississippians, but it should be: there are no bench warmers in high school mountain biking鈥攅very student athlete makes the team and everyone races. 鈥淲here I live, people don鈥檛 look at cycling as anything serious,鈥� says Tucker Hoeniges, a junior on the Blues team from Brookhaven, Mississippi. 鈥淚t bothers me. It鈥檚 all about football, baseball. I try over and over to get my friends to ride but they won鈥檛 listen.鈥�

Hoeniges is the team鈥檚 best shot at the podium this season, which ends in June. At 14, Hoeniges got his first mountain bike and tried racing a couple months before joining the composite team. 鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 very good at all, but I loved it from the start,鈥� he says. After his first time standing on the podium, he was hooked. 鈥淚t really doesn鈥檛 take talent,鈥� says Hoeniges. 鈥淢ost of it is hard work. At a race if someone beats you, they aren鈥檛 better than you鈥攖hey鈥檙e just training harder than you.鈥�

He finished the 2017 season third overall for sophomores and went on to compete at the USA Cycling Mountain Bike National Championships in West Virginia last July, where he placed 15th in his category. Hoeniges trains 11 to 15 hours a week, all on his own. At his level鈥擧oeniges is now racing Cat 1鈥攑ractice with the composite team is more about camaraderie and mentoring younger teammates. 聽He lives a 15-minute pedal from one of the state鈥檚 best trails, Mount Zion, where Hoeniges can put in up to three hours on the nine-mile, 900-vertical foot loop. 鈥淢ississippi doesn鈥檛 have the long, sustained climbs, but we work with what we鈥檝e got,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 creativity.鈥�

Swartzfager says everyone on the team is faster than last year. 鈥淲hen I started a year ago, I could keep up with the younger kids,鈥� she says. 鈥淣ow they all leave me in the dust. Their bike handling skills, their physical condition鈥攅verything has improved. And it鈥檚 taken zero motivation on the parents鈥� end, because mountain biking is inherently fun.

鈥淵ou can get depressed鈥攚e have so many problems to overcome,鈥澛爏he says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e not going to save the world, but if we can positively impact the lives of a team of young people, that is success. That is where the hope comes from. The potential for this team is huge.鈥�

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