The first handhold was a root.
Arthur grabbed it and pulled and his shoulder screamed and he pulled anyway. Theodore's weight was distributed across his back with Roz's wind taking what it could from below but the wind wasn't enough and Arthur's legs were doing something that didn't feel like legs anymore. More like suggestions. Approximations of legs.
He found the next hold. A jutting rock. Cold enough to burn through his palm.
He pulled.
Theodore would be home right now.
The thought arrived between one handhold and the next, uninvited and precise. Home. Helping his family the way Theodore always talked about helping his family, that easy warmth he carried about them, the way his face changed when he mentioned his mother. He would be there right now if Arthur hadn't needed someone on the perimeter. If Arthur hadn't looked at the roster of people he trusted and pointed at the one person who smiled too easily for this kind of work and said yes, him, bring him.
