The padlock is cold enough to bite your glove.

You rattle it. The sound is huge. The adit takes it, multiplies it, hands it back in pieces, a committee of your own mistake. Ice ticks in the stone. You scare yourself on schedule. The grate holds. The lock holds. Nothing small and helpful knocks a warning you can use. You invent a wobble in your knees and then notice you invented it.

Embarrassment is the correct weather in your face. Not gore. Not a cave-in movie. Just a kid who rang a doorbell that said DO NOT RING.

Ellis whispers, “Okay. Okay, that was us.” Which is the beginning of science.

The path back is still packed. The cabin windows are still yellow. Cold is still a math problem: get out of the wind, do not stand here being dramatic for the mountain.

The rattle lives in your wrists after it dies in the air. That is adrenaline, which is a chemical, which is allowed. You do not run. Running on packed snow with pride in your eyes is how people collect bruises. You stand. You breathe a cloud. You hate the padlock for being right. The padlock does not care. It is a lump of no.