When I start to shiver, Sorrel takes off my jacket. “Wear it.”
“Sorrel...”
“I’m serious,” she says. Then her face softens. “Look, if I get cold, I’ll ask for it, okay? This coat, your hoodie, the thermals, it’s enough. At least for now.”
I sigh, and shrug on the jacket. I’m grateful for the heat. I wrap my arms around her, and just hold her light that, exchanging even more heat.
We make noise periodically, shouting and banging on the roof, anything to convince the mountain lion we’re not worth the effort.
After some time of this, Sorrel shifts beside me. “What if we repositioned the ladder on the other side? Near the food storage. Then climb down, grab some of the frozen meat, and throw itat the lion. You know, create a decoy. While it’s distracted, we lower the ladder back here on this side and climb down fast.”
For a second I actually consider it. The tactical part of my brain that built a mining empire, anyway.
But then the other part, the part that’s been terrified for her safety ever since the moment she insisted on coming up here, takes over.
“No,” I say flatly.
“Gregory--”
“No.” I turn to face her. “We’d have to wade back across this roof through four feet of snow, lower a ladder we can barely control, climb down while that thing is still out there. And what happens when it realizes the decoy meat is still frozen? We’re halfway down a ladder, completely exposed.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, reluctantly, “You’re right. That was stupid.”
“Not stupid,” I say, softening slightly. “Desperate. But we’re not desperate yet.” I pull her closer against my side. “We wait it out. Eventually it’ll leave.”
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, it loses interest. The mountain lion simply turns and lopes back toward the tree line, and disappears into the forest.
We wait another ten minutes to be sure. Neither of us speaks. We just breathe and hold each other and try to stop shaking.
“I think it’s gone,” Sorrel finally whispers.
“Yeah.” I glance at the satellite dish. A small cleared pocket in an otherwise snow-buried roof. “We did it.”
“We did ittogether,” she says quietly, and there’s something in her voice. Pride maybe. Or relief. “But doesn’t mean I wasn’t terrified the whole time.”
“Me too,” I admit.
I throw her shovel down so it joins mine in the snow below. Then I carefully lower the ladder back to the ground, and once it’s in place, I test it three times before I commit.
“I’m going first,” I tell Sorrel. “If it’s stable for me, it’s stable for you.”
And if the lion attacks, it attacks me, not you.
But I don’t tell her that.
She nods, too scared to argue.
The descent is terrifying. Every step feels like it might be the one where the ladder shifts or my frozen hands lose their grip. Or the one where the cougar decides to run out from the trees and pounce.
My boot finds the next rung. And the next. And then... the following rung just fucking slides out from under me.
Snow and ice. Must have accumulated on the ladder when I pulled it onto the roof.
My hands grip the rails reflexively, but my gloves are slick and my fingers are half-numb. For one heart-stopping second I’m swinging out from the ladder, one boot in the air, the other scrabbling for purchase on the icy metal.
My shoulder wrenches. Above me I hear Sorrel gasp.
My flailing boot finally catches the rung below and I slam back against the ladder hard enough to rattle my teeth. I lay there a moment, chest heaving, heart racing.
