Over the Lip
At the rim, Thomas planted an anchor and checked the line twice. “You first,” he told the man. Greg lowered slowly, paying out rope hand over hand. The stranger’s boots scraped for purchase, then bit. Thomas followed, swinging his pick delicately, avoiding brittle patches. Ice chips ticked down the wall. Halfway, a fist-sized slab sheared off above and skittered past. They froze, counted three heartbeats, and kept moving anyway.
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