Then I hand her my Patagonia jacket as an additional layer over everything as well.
“What?No, I can’t do that.” She shakes her head. “You needsomeprotection from the cold. We don’t know how long we’ll be up there.”
“Take it,” I order her. “You’ll be working up there with me, true, but you’re smaller. You lose heat faster. You need the warmth more than I do.”
She sighs, and finally accepts it. “Fine. But if I see you’re getting cold, I’m giving the damn thing right back. Especially considering how low your body fat percentage is.”
“Works for me,” I tell her, though secretly I have no intention of taking it back when we’re up there.
She opens the door, then scoops up both shovels. She leaves the other noisemakers... no free hands to carry them. I grab the ladder and follow.
Outside, the cold hits like a physical blow. The sun is brilliant on the snow, making everything blindingly white.
We trudge through the deep drifts toward the north side of the house where the satellite dish is mounted. For the most part we stay close to the walls. Every step requires effort, and my thighs burn from the exertion. That’s good, though. Exertion keeps you warm.
Sorrel leads the way in front of me while I verbally guide her. She follows the path we previously trampled through the snow to get to the food storage area, so she doesn’t have to break fresh trail until we’re past it.
The extension ladder is awkward as hell to carry through deep snow, but I manage it. Sorrel meanwhile occasionally clangs the shovels together, converting them into noisemakers.
We’re both scanning constantly. Tree line. Roof overhang. The food storage area where we know the cougar has been circling.
Nothing.
That somehow makes it worse.
When we reach the dish area, I set the base of the ladder on the ground and extend it section by section until it reaches the roof edge. Then I lean the ladder against that edge and step back, assessing the thing like I’m surveying a dangerous mine shaft.
Except this time it’s not about quarterly yields or extraction efficiency.
It’s about getting Sorrel up and down that ladder without her breaking her neck.
And once she’s up there...
The roof pitch glares down at me. Eight on twelve, Thomas had mentioned once in passing. At the time it was just a construction detail, meaningless trivia about a property I barely used.
Now it’s a potentially lethal incline.
Steep enough to shed snow efficiently in normal circumstances.
And steep enough to send a person sliding right off the edge if they lose their footing.
Which could kill her, at the height we’re talking.
I force the thought down and focus on the ladder angle, the stability, whether the base will hold in the snow. My hands check the extension locks twice. Three times.
Because if this thing shifts while she’s climbing, or if anything goes wrong...
Fuck, I shouldn’t have agreed to this.
“How deep is the snow?” she asks.
“Looks like about four feet from here,” I reply distractedly.
“Shit,” she says. “That’s alot.”
“The dish is completely covered,” I agree. “Can’t see it at all.”
I can’t shake the building dread I’m feeling.
