You got this, Sorrel.
You got this.
One boot.
The other.
One mitten.
The other.
Every rung she climbs feels like an eternity.
Finally, when she’s close enough, I reach down and grab her wrist, hauling her up the last few feet onto the roof beside me. I can’t help but shudder from the cold, but she doesn’t notice thankfully.
“Okay?” I ask, checking her face.
“Okay,” she breathes. She surveys the roof. “Jesus, thisisdeep. You weren’t kidding.”
“No,” I agree, doing my best to prevent my teeth from chattering. “Let’s get to work.”
I wade forward, heading toward the closest shovel. Each step requires effort to push through the heavy snow. When I arrive, I grab the shovel with a gloved hand and toss it to her. Then I wade to the next one.
“It’s this way,” I call to her. We wade the fifteen feet down the roof toward the hump of snow harboring the Starlink dish. It’s too close to the edge for comfort, so I purposely position myself between Sorrel and the drop.
Once we’re in place, we start clearing. With both of us working, the snow comes away much faster than if it were just me alone, and I finally stop shivering as the exertion heats my core.
We have to dig down through the layers... the top powder from the final day, the heavier packed snow beneath, and finally the ice layer that formed during temperature fluctuations.
It’s like excavating a goddamn archaeological site.
I chip at the packed ice with my blade while she scoops away the loose snow. We move in synchronized rhythm, neither speaking, just focused on the task.
We’re maybe ten minutes into clearing when Sorrel goes completely still beside me.
“Gregory,” she says, and something in her tone makes my blood freeze.
I look up from the dish. Follow her gaze down to the base of the ladder.
The mountain lion is there. Just standing there. Watching us with predatory focus.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“How long has it been there?” Sorrel whispers.
“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” I’m already assessing options and they’re all bad. “Keep working. Fast as you can. We get this clear and get down before it decides to climb.”
But even as I say it, the cougar moves closer to the ladder. Testing it with one massive paw.
“Gregory, they canclimb,” Sorrel says, her voice shaking.
“I know. We’re almost done. Just keep going.” I start wading back through the snow toward the ladder, fifteen feet away. Eachstep is a battle against the deep accumulation and the eight-twelve pitch.
Even following my earlier path doesn’t help much. The snow has already shifted, so that my boots sink deep with every step. I glance down. The cougar hasn’t moved from the base.
My thighs burn. The angle wants to pitch me forward, face-first into the drift. Still holding the shovel, I stay low, keeping my center of gravity back.
Behind me I can hear Sorrel still scraping frantically around the dish. The metallic sound of her shovel against ice seems impossibly loud, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
