Chapter 12: The Climbing Lessons
The next few days were a lesson in patience for everyone, Rosa most of all. She wasn’t used to being fussed over, and being stuck in bed didn’t help the situation. Jason had helped her make something of a supportive back rest out of pillows and a folded mattress pad, so she could actually sit up and do something with her hands. Roy took advantage of her forced stillness to practice climbing up the uneven terrain of her blanket folds.
“Don’t you dare,” Rosa said, not looking up from the dagger she was sharpening on a whetstone balanced on her lap. Her fingers moved with a slow, rhythmic schick-schick.
Roy froze, one tiny hand buried in the thick wool of the blanket halfway up her thigh. “I wasn’t—”
“You were thinking about scaling the north face of Mount Rosa to get to the water glass on the nightstand.You’ll use the stairs. The book stairs.”
He grumbled, retreating back down to the quilted valley between her legs. The “book stairs” were a tower of her old, water-damaged medical texts leading from mattress to desk. They were stable, predictable.The blanket was a shifting, unpredictable landscape of soft peaks and sudden sheer drops. He needed to master both.From the doorway, Jason watched, a ghost of a smile on his face. He held two mugs of something steaming. “He’s like a determined little ant.”
“A pissed-off ant,” Rosa corrected, turning the dagger and testing the edge with her thumb. Satisfied, she sheathed it. “A pissed-off ant with a chronic case of the guilts.”
“I can hear you,” Roy called up from the blankets.
“Good,” Rosa and Jason said in unison.
Jason handed Rosa a mug. It wasn’t coffee, but a bitter, earthy tea made from roasted dandelion roots and a precious scrap of dried mint.
It smelled like dirt and memory. “Lee and Joan finished the west stairwell reinforcement. Used that cross-bracing idea. It’s solid.”
Roy had reached the summit of her bent knee, a little breathless. “Did they check the cable gauge on the lower tensioner?”
“They did. It was fatiguing, just like you said. They replaced it with heavier aircraft cable from the workshop store. Said it was a good catch.”
Rosa sipped her tea, watching the minute rise and fall of Roy’s shoulders as he caught his breath.
A good catch. It was the kind of praise that worked on him better than any comfort. Proof of function.
“Sandy’s making you a sling,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe. “For your rifle. So you can still use crutches when you’re finally allowed to vertical.”
“When is that?”
“Sandy says three more days. Minimum.”
Rosa scowled into her mug. “I’m going to forget how to walk.”
“You’re not. You’re going to sit there and be our strategic command center.” Jason nodded to the cracked tablet on her desk, its screen still displaying the map of their decaying campus. “Update the perimeter notes. Track the supply inventories. Be mean to people from a stationary position. You’re good at that.”
She flipped him off, but there was no heat in it. He was right. She felt useless, but information was a weapon she could still wield from bed.
Roy, having conquered the knee, was now contemplating the sheer cliff-face of her tank top. The cotton looked soft, but it was a vertical climb with minimal handholds.
“Go on,” she murmured, her eyes back on the tablet Jason had brought over. “Try it. But if you fall into my tea, I’m not fishing you out. You’ll be dandelion soup.”
He shot her a look, a flash of his old defiance in miniature, and began his ascent. His fingers sought out the subtle seams, the tiny puckers in the fabric. It was agonizingly slow.
Rosa forced herself not to watch too closely, focusing instead on the map.
She zoomed in on the east fence line. The erosion was worse than she’d thought. Another heavy rain and a whole section could slump into the creekbed, opening a twenty-foot gap.
“Jason,” she said, her voice all business. “We need to divert labor to the east fence. After the livestock are fed tomorrow. Priority.”
He came over, peering at the screen. “That bad?”
“It’ll be. Let’s get the loose stone from the old chemistry wing rubble, use it to shore up the bank on our side. Make it a two-day project.”
“Got it. I’ll tell Jayden. She likes masonry work. Says it’s peaceful.”
A small, frustrated sound came from her chest level.
Roy was stuck. He’d made it halfway up the stretch of cotton over her ribs, but the fabric was taut here, smoothed by the curve of her body. No purchase. His little legs kicked, searching for a grip that wasn’t there.
Rosa didn’t move. Didn’t offer a hand. She kept her breathing deliberately even, a steady plateau for him to work against.
“Come on, engineer,” Jason whispered, as if cheering at a tense sporting event. “You got this.”
Roy adjusted his grip, shifting his weight laterally towards a slight pucker where a stitch had come slightly loose. He hooked his fingers into the tiny loop of thread and pulled, muscles straining in his arms. He hauled himself up an inch. Then another.
Finally, he reached the relative safety of her shoulder, the familiar perch he’d occupied a hundred times before. He collapsed onto his back, chest heaving. The climb had taken nearly ten minutes.
Rosa slowly tilted her head until her cheek rested against her own shoulder, her temple just inches from where he lay. She could feel the faint, rapid pulse of his exertion through the fabric. “Good climb.”
“That sucked,” he panted.
“Yeah. It did. Tomorrow it’ll suck a little less.” She straightened up again. “Your harness. It should be done today or tomorrow.”
Roy sat up, instantly alert. “really?!”
“That’s what Sandy told me earlier.”
Sweet!” She could feel his excitement vibrating through him.
The room settled back into its own rhythm: the low hum of the air filter, the faint gurgle from the hydroponic trays, the slow, even sound of Rosa’s breathing. She lifted her mug, the warmth seeping into her palms, and took another sip of the bitter tea.
Roy, from his perch on her shoulder, examined the room from this perspective.
Roy sat up on the shelf of her shoulder, legs dangling over the edge of her tank top strap. The question came out before he could think it through.
"Hey. Can I practice climbing your hair?"
Rosa's hand paused mid-stroke on the whetstone. She turned her head, one eyebrow lifting. "My hair."
"Yeah." He gestured at the long braid hanging down her back, a thick rope of brown that looked, from his vantage point, like a proper climbing route. "The braid's got texture. Seams. And it's attached to something warm."
"That's creepy."
"It's practical. You're warm and stationary. It's the perfect training ground." He spread his hands. "I need to practice different surfaces. Soft stuff. Stuff that moves."
Rosa was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed, a long, put-upon sound that she made for show more than anything else. "Fine. But if you pull, I'm tying you to the bedpost and leaving you there."
"Deal."
She shifted, reaching back to pull the braid over her shoulder so it lay across her chest, the tail end of it pooling on the blanket beside her hip. The movement was smooth, practiced, and Roy had to grab the edge of her collar to keep his balance as the world tipped.
"Sorry," she muttered.
"S'all good. New surface, new grip."
Roy scrambled down from her shoulder, moving to where the braid lay thickest on the blanket. It was a landscape unlike anything he'd trained on so far. The weave of her hair was tight and regular, a series of overlapping diagonal ridges that ran the length of the braid like the tread of a tire. At his scale, each strand was a cable, thick as his wrist, and the gaps between them were channels deep enough to swallow his whole body.
He crouched, pressing his palm against the surface. It had give. Not much, but enough that a grip could flex and hold. He dug his fingers into a channel between two strands, testing the purchase.
"Here we go," he said, more to himself than to her.
The first moves were easy. Low angle, plenty of handholds. He climbed the slope of the braid where it curved over her thigh, using the ridges like ladder rungs. His legs found purchase in the channels, and he moved with increasing confidence, a new cadence in his limbs.
Rosa had gone back to her tablet, her attention on the map. But her breathing had changed, a steadiness that told him she was tracking his progress without looking. He didn't mind. It was better that way. She was big and warm and steady, and he could feel her pulse through the fabric where his feet pressed, a distant drumbeat that anchored him.
He reached the point where the braid rose steeply toward her shoulder, the angle sharpening. Here the weave was tighter, the ridges shallower, the surface smoother. His fingers struggled for purchase. He slid back an inch, catching himself on a thicker strand, his heart hammering.
"Stuck?" Rosa asked, still not looking.
"Thinking."
"Don't think too long. The tea's getting cold."
Roy gritted his teeth. He shifted his approach, moving laterally instead of straight up, finding a rhythm in the diagonal weave. He hooked his fingers into the gaps, pulled himself up with his arms, and let his legs follow in a series of deliberate, controlled movements. It wasn't fast. It wasn't pretty. But it was progress.
Three feet. Two feet. One.
He crested the curve of her shoulder, pulling himself over the thickest part of the braid where it lay against her collarbone. The fabric of her shirt was slick here, but he found a seam and used it as a final handhold, hauling himself up onto the flat shelf where her shoulder met her neck.
He lay there, panting, his cheek pressed against the cotton of her shirt. The pulse of her carotid was a steady, reassuring thrum against the side of his head.
"Made it," he managed.
Rosa's hand came up, and for a moment Roy tensed, expecting to be lifted and relocated. But she just tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers passing within an inch of where he lay before retreating.
"Good climb," she said quietly.
"It was different. Harder than the blanket."
"The blanket's got folds. That's you. The braid's uniform. You have to make your own handholds."
Roy sat up, looking back down the length of the braid he'd just conquered. It stretched away from him like a winding road, the texture at this scale a foreign terrain of cables and valleys. He'd climbed it. He'd actually climbed it.
"What's next?" he asked.
Rosa thought about it. "The part of the braid that's hanging over the bed. The tail end. It's got more play, more movement. You'll have to compensate for the swing."
Roy looked at it. The tail end of the braid rested against the edge of the mattress, swaying faintly with the movement of her breathing.
"You want me to climb something that's moving?"
"Seemed like a good idea when you asked me about my hair."
He laughed, a thin buzzing sound. Then he stood, brushing off his knees, and started making his way down the slope of her collarbone toward the upper curve of the braid.
"You're going to fall," she said mildly.
"Maybe. But I'll get back up."
"Tuck and roll."
"Tuck and roll," he confirmed.
He reached the braid and began his descent, moving down the opposite side of the climb he'd just made. The texture was the same, but the angle was reversed, and his muscles burned from the ascent. He took it slow, testing each grip twice before committing his weight.
Behind him, Rosa lifted her mug and took a long sip of her tea, her eyes tracking him in her peripheral vision.
"You're doing good," she said. "Really."
"Don't jinx it," he called back, his voice thin with concentration.
He'd made it halfway down when the braid shifted. Not much, just a fraction, as Rosa adjusted her weight against the pillows. But at his scale, it was enough to send a ripple through the entire structure, a wave that traveled down the length of the hair and made his footholds shudder.
Roy clung to the strands, his fingers digging deep into the weave. He held his breath, waiting for the motion to still.
"Easy," Rosa murmured, as much to herself as to him.
The ripple subsided. Roy exhaled, loosening his grip. He looked up, meeting her gaze. She was watching him now, her eyes sharp over the rim of her mug.
"That was deliberate," he said.
"What was?"
"You shifted. On purpose. To test me."
She didn't deny it. "Just checking your grip strength."
He shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "You're a menace."
"And you're still in my hair. Move it or the tea's getting spilled."
He laughed, and the sound was lighter than it had been in days. He resumed his descent, moving down the braid with renewed confidence, his fingers finding the rhythm of the weave. The tail end was close now, the strands loosening, the texture becoming more chaotic. He swung down, letting gravity take some of his weight, and landed on the blanket in a crouch, breathing hard.
He stood, brushing the loose hairs from his clothes. The whole climb had taken maybe twenty minutes. It felt like a victory.
Rosa looked down at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "You getting better at this."
"I had a good coach."
She snorted. "I'm just furniture. You did the climbing."
Roy walked back toward her, his steps easier now, more settled. He reached the fold of the blanket beside her hip, where the lamp cast a soft pool of light. He sat down, pulling a loose thread from the wool and idly twisting it between his fingers.
"What's next?" he asked again.
Rosa glanced at him, then at the harness plans spread out on the nightstand, the diagrams of webbing and rings and buckles that might, in a day or two, become something real.
"Next," she said, "we wait. And we practice." She tapped the space beside her on the blanket. "And you rest. You earned it."
Roy looked at the spot she offered. It was a mountain of soft wool, a patch of warmth from her body heat. He settled into it, the fabric enveloping him, and lay back, staring up at the vast ceiling of the room.
It wasn't the same as being the size he used to be. It would never be the same. But here, in the warm curve of his sister's blankets, with the steady rhythm of her breathing filling the room, it didn't feel quite so much like the end of the world.
Tomorrow, the harness. Tomorrow, more climbing. Tomorrow, more work.
For now, he just rested.
He surfaced from sleep the way he always did these days, in pieces. First the sound of breathing, slow and deep, filling the air around him like a tide. Then the warmth, a steady furnace of heat that pressed against him from every side. Then the darkness, the soft, muffled gloom of a space enclosed by something vast and alive.
Roy blinked, his eyes adjusting. The pillow beneath him was small, flat, familiar. He recognized it as one from Rosa's backrest, the thin square of foam she'd had propped behind her lower back for the past two days. It lay snug against her chest now, tilted at an angle that cradled him like a shallow bowl. And around him, encircling him on three sides, was Rosa.
She'd turned in her sleep. That was the first thing he registered. For three nights she'd lain on her back, leg propped on a folded blanket, arm stretched out at her side. But sometime in the dark hours she'd shifted onto her side, curving inward, tucking herself around the pillow and its tiny occupant like a shell protecting a pearl. Her massive arm lay draped across the edge of the pillow, a warm, heavy wall of muscle and skin that blocked him from the rest of the bed. Her breath washed over the top of his head, slow and even, stirring the fine hairs on his arms.
Roy lay very still, taking it in.
From his position, she was a landscape. The curve of her bicep rose above him like a ridgeline, the skin smooth and sun-darkened, scattered with fine hairs that caught the faint grey light filtering through the boarded window. He could see the faint pulse of her wrist against the pillow's edge, a steady rhythm that matched the breathing above him. Her fingers were curled loose, inches from his feet, the calloused pads of them worn and familiar.
She'd curled around him. In her sleep, without thinking, she'd turned herself into a barrier.
Roy sat up slowly, careful not to make a sound. The pillow shifted slightly under his weight, and he steadied himself with a hand on the fabric. His body ached from the previous day's climbing, a deep, pleasant soreness in his arms and shoulders that spoke of muscles being used in new ways. The scrap of cloth he wore as a belt had twisted during the night, and he adjusted it, his fingers clumsy with sleep.
The room was quiet. The air filter hummed its low, constant note. The hydroponic trays gurgled softly in the corner, their LED strips casting a faint purple-green glow across the floor. Through the gap in the boarded window, he could see the pale grey of pre-dawn, the same light that had been pressing through the seams when he'd finally fallen asleep.
He looked back at Rosa. Her face was close enough that he could see the individual lashes fanned against her cheek, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes that deepened when she smiled. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing soft and regular. The braid he'd climbed yesterday lay coiled on the pillow beside her head, a thick rope of brown that looked, at his scale, like a sleeping serpent.
She'd curled around him. The thought repeated itself, and something in his chest tightened, a complicated tangle of love and guilt and gratitude that he didn't have the words for.
He stood, his legs shaky, and walked to the edge of the pillow where her arm lay across it. The forearm was a wall, warm and solid, rising higher than his head. He pressed his palm against it, feeling the warmth of her skin, the faint give of flesh over muscle. She didn't stir. Her breathing remained slow and even.
He looked up at her face, then back down at the arm that penned him in. He was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped, in the most deliberate, unconscious act of care he'd ever experienced.
"Rosa," he said softly. His voice was a wasp's drone, barely audible over the hum of the air filter.
She didn't respond.
He tried again, a little louder. "Rosa."
Her breathing hitched. Her eyes opened, unfocused, blinking in the dim light. They found him after a moment, standing on the pillow with his hand pressed against the great wall of her forearm. A slow awareness crept into her face, followed by something soft and unguarded.
"Roy," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "You're up."
"I've been up for like five minutes."
She blinked again, processing. Then her gaze dropped to her own arm, draped across the pillow, and her expression shifted to something almost sheepish. "Oh. Looks like I moved."
"Yeah." Roy gestured at the curve of her body, the way she'd tucked herself around him like a shield. "You made a fort."
Rosa's mouth quirked. "A fort."
"A very effective one. I couldn't have gotten out if I'd wanted to."
"Couldn't you?"
"Your arm's like a mountain, Rosa. I'd need climbing gear."
She huffed a laugh, the sound warm and rumpled. Her hand shifted, lifting from the pillow, and she brought it up to her face, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her wrist. The movement displaced the air around him, a soft gust that ruffled his hair. Then she lowered her hand, and her eyes found him again, sharper now, more awake.
"You sleep okay?" she asked.
Roy considered the question. The pillow had been small and unfamiliar. The warmth had been overwhelming at first, a furnace that had made him kick off his scrap of blanket within the first hour. But the wall of her arm, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the slow, sure pulse of her heart through the pillow where his head had rested... he'd slept deeper than he had in days.
"Better than I have in a while," he said.
Rosa nodded, a slow, satisfied motion. She didn't move to sit up, didn't shift away. She lay there, her body still curved around the pillow, her arm now resting at her side but her shoulder and hip still forming a gentle crescent around him.
"The harness," he said. "Sandy said today."
"I know."
"Is she back?"
Rosa's eyes flicked to the door. "She got back late last night. Lee's truck broke down on the way home, they had to tow it with the bike. By the time they got in, everyone was exhausted. She said she'd bring the materials up this morning." She paused. "I didn't hear her come up, though. She's probably still asleep."
Roy looked at the window again. The grey was brightening, a faint gold bleeding through the cracks.
"What time is it?"
"Early. Too early for you to be climbing anything."
"I wasn't going to climb anything."
"Liar."
He laughed, a thin buzzing sound, and sat back down on the pillow, crossing his legs. Rosa's hand came to rest on the edge of the pillow again, her fingers curling to form a low wall beside him. Not trapping him, not quite. Just... present.
"Good climb yesterday," she said quietly. "The braid. That was solid work."
"Thanks. The tail end's still tricky. The swing throws off the rhythm."
"You'll get it. A few more days of practice and you'll be scaling walls."
"Yeah." He looked at her, at the way the morning light was catching the edge of her jaw, the way her eyes stayed on him with that quiet, fierce attention. "Rosa. Thanks. For... this." He gestured vaguely at the pillow, at the curve of her body, at the arm that had become a wall in the night.
Her expression softened. For a moment she was just his sister, the same woman who'd taught him how to change a tire and which mushrooms not to eat and how to shoulder a rifle without flinching. "You're family, Roy. You don't thank family for keeping you warm."
"I know. But I'm doing it anyway."
She snorted. "Stubborn."
"Learned from the best."
A voice from the hallway, muffled through the door: "Rosa? Roy? You both awake?" Sandy's voice, low but carrying.
Rosa's eyes went to the door. "Yeah. Come in."
The door cracked open, and Sandy slipped through, her arms full of a cloth bundle. Her hair was loose today, not braided, and there were dark circles under her eyes. But she was smiling, a tired, pleased smile that did something hopeful to Roy's chest.
"Good morning," she said, crossing to the bed. "I've got something for you, Roy."
She set the bundle on the blanket beside Rosa, careful not to jostle the pillow where he sat. The cloth fell open, revealing a tangle of webbing and straps and buckles, all cut down and re-sewn to a scale that made Roy's breath catch.
The harness.
"I thought we were gonna make that later today?" Rosa's eyebrow quirked up in amusement as she took in the bundle.
Sandy waved a hand dismissively, already settling cross-legged on the edge of the bed. "Lee and I got back sooner than expected. And I had extra time while the truck was being coaxed back to life, so I figured I'd get a head start." She pulled the webbing free from the cloth, holding it up for inspection. "The jeweler's pliers from the craft store worked like a charm. Found a whole bin of mini buckles in the beading section, meant for making bracelets and keychains. Perfect size."
Roy's heart was hammering against his ribs as he scrambled to the edge of the pillow, trying to get a better look. The harness was a miniature work of engineering: two layers of dark nylon webbing, cut down and stitched together with dense, precise seams. Velcro strips were attached at the shoulders and hips, ready to be cinched. And at the back, a small metal ring was anchored between the layers, visible through a carefully sewn slot.
"It's beautiful," he breathed, and the words came out thinner than he'd intended, almost reverent.
Sandy laughed. "It's functional. That's the point." She positioned it on the blanket beside him, smoothing it flat. "Alright, let's see how it fits. Arms up."
Roy raised his hands, and Sandy carefully lifted the tiny harness over his head, easing his arms through the shoulder straps. The fabric settled against his chest and back, snug but not tight, the Velcro tabs hanging loose. Sandy's fingers moved with delicate precision, adjusting the fit around his torso, her calloused fingertips dwarfing his entire frame.
"Good," she murmured. "Breathe out."
He did, and she cinched the Velcro strips, pressing them firmly into place. The harness hugged his body like a second skin, the pressure distributed evenly across his shoulders and hips. He moved his arms experimentally, twisted his torso, bent at the waist. Nothing pinched. Nothing shifted.
"How does it feel?" Rosa asked from above, her voice a warm rumble that vibrated through the blanket.
"Like I'm wearing armor," Roy said, and he was grinning, he couldn't stop grinning. "It doesn't chafe. The Velcro holds tight but it doesn't dig in."
Sandy nodded, satisfaction plain on her face. "The buckles on the climbing gear were all too big, even the smallest sizes. But the jewelry ones took to the webbing like they were made for it. The carabiner's a keychain type, but I tested the load rating with weights in the workshop. It'll hold a few pounds without issue."
She reached into the cloth bundle and produced the carabiner, small and round, maybe an inch in diameter, its gate smooth and quick. She offered it to Roy.
He took it in both hands, turning it over. The metal was cool against his palms, the spring of the gate smooth under his thumb. He opened it, closed it, opened it again. A simple thing, a childhood toy, a keychain trinket. But here, now, it was a lifeline.
"How do I attach it?" he asked.
Sandy pointed to the ring on the back of the harness. "Clip it there. The ring's anchored between the layers, so it won't pull free. Then you've got a standard attachment point, something you can hook onto a belt loop, a rope, a strap. Something bigger can grab onto you, or you can grab onto something."
Roy clipped the carabiner onto the ring, feeling the satisfying click of the gate closing. He tugged at it gently, then harder. The harness held firm, the metal ring not budging.
"It works," he said, and his voice cracked on the last syllable.
Rosa's hand came into view, her index finger extending toward him. She touched the carabiner, testing it with a gentle tap, then withdrew. "Good. Now climb down and let's see what you can do."
Roy looked up at the vast landscape of the bed, the impossible distance between the pillow and the floor. His body trembled, not from cold, but from a complex mixture of hope and fear. The harness was real. The independence was real. But the world was still six feet tall, and he was still three inches small.
"You'll need a ride down," Sandy said, her voice gentle. "That's what the carabiner's for."
Roy's gaze snapped back to the tiny metal ring at his back. A ride down. He reached over his shoulder, unclipping the carabiner, and held it out toward Sandy.
She understood. She took the carabiner between her thumb and forefinger, lifting him effortlessly from the pillow. Roy dangled at the end of his own harness, a foot above the blanket, and the sensation was dizzying and wonderful all at once. He wasn't being carried in her palm, cradled and helpless. He was suspended, attached, connected.
Sandy lowered him gently to the floorboards, releasing the carabiner. He landed steady, crouching for balance, then straightened.
The room stretched around him, vast and shadowed. The hydroponic racks loomed like green towers on his left. The desk was a sheer cliff face to his right. The floorboards were a rutted plain of grain and dust. But he was on his feet. He was attached to his own gear. He could move.
"Well?" Rosa called from the bed above. "Test it. Climb something."
Roy looked around, his eyes scanning the terrain. The nearest wall was a vertical plane of painted wood, scarred with nicks and old scuffs. But there was a shelf there, a narrow wooden strip at waist-height to the others, at least three feet above him now. A climbable target.
He approached the wall, the harness hugging his movements, and reached for the first handhold: a small gouge in the wood where something had dented it years ago. His fingers found the purchase, his feet followed, and he began to climb.
The harness didn't shift. It didn't pull. It moved with him like a living thing, the webbing distributing his weight evenly, the carabiner bobbing against his back like a tiny bell. He climbed faster, more confidently, finding the scuffs and rough patches in the wood as he went.
"Smooth," Sandy said, watching. "Look at him go."
Rosa was leaning over the edge of the bed, her face a mix of fierceness and pride. "Don't fall, you idiot."
"I won't!" he called back, and even his voice sounded different through the harness, more solid somehow.
He reached the shelf, hauling himself over the edge, and stood panting on the wooden surface. The room looked different from here. He could see the top of the hydroponic rack, the LED strips casting a purple-green glow. He could see the crack in the ceiling above the desk. He could see Rosa's face, enormous and bright, leaning over the bed to watch him.
He turned, reaching for the carabiner at his back, and clipped it onto the edge of the shelf. He tugged, testing the connection, then leaned his weight against it. The harness held, the strap across his shoulders going taut.
"I can do this," he said, and the words were quiet, meant for himself. "I can actually do this."
Below, Sandy smiled and began gathering the scraps of webbing. Rosa's voice floated down to him, warm and gruff. "Get used to it. Because we've got a lot to build."