I move. I am a mountain walking through a storm. The wind slams into my back, trying to push me, to break me. I stand. I plant my feet. I push forward.
My free hand—my clawed hand—is out. I am feeling. Searching.
Snow. Ice. Tree.
ROCK.
My claws scrape against stone. Yes.
The rock is a wall. A ridge.
Shelter. It must have shelter.
I turn my back to the wind, my chest—and Betty—pressed against the stone. The wind howls, louder this time.
I move along the wall. One step. Two. My hand searches. Scrapes. Finds nothing.
My wounds burn. The cold is a new fire.
Betty... her shivering is less.
No.
That is bad. That is death.
Fear makes me angry. Rage makes me strong.
I roar into the storm. I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE HER.
I search. Faster. My claws scrape and tear at the rock.
Snow... ice...
A hole then a crack. A darkness in the white.
My hand finds an opening. It is low. It is small.
I put my face near it.
Air. The air inside is still. It does not scream. It smells like damp earth and stone. It smells safe.
I grunt. Good.
I lower myself. I crouch.
I push her. Gently. Gently. "In," I growl. The word is a sound ripped from my throat.
She understands. She tumbles into the darkness, a small, soft shape.
She is safe.
Now, me.
I turn. I crouch. I try to enter the hole.
Stuck.
My shoulders. I am too wide. The rock bites into me.
