Her leg is gone at the hip, she can’t feel anything anymore. She looks down at her slashed hand, almost surprised to see it still bleeding.

Her voice is low and calm. “Go back to the center, Sim.”

He steps in again. Another creak in the ice shelf; they’re on a weak spot of some kind. Maeve tries to shift her body slowly away to where the shelf feels more stable. He’s standing over her now, so close that his belt buckle could almost brush her hairline. Wind comes howling up the ridge, bringing a shower of frozen snow with it, and for a moment she can’t see or hear anything else.

“Listen to it down there, Maeve—you won’t survive. Come with me instead.”

Down in the woods, the bear heaves against the wall another time, and the ice covering it cracks, breaks away, and falls to the ground below. Eventually the bear will hit rock. And climb.

Sim jolts again at the noise of it, and this time Maeve springs onto her good leg, reaching for the gun. Her hand on the gun and his, too, and the holster wet and slick with snow and sweat. Maeve’s hand bleeding, her bad hand. He’s grabbing at it, trying to pry her off, when she comes at him with the claw. Not at his face or neck, but where it’s most useful: the razor tip tearing through the soft place between his thumb and forefinger. His hand flashes open in reaction—enough time for Maeve to close her fingers around the revolver and wrench it free.

The gun goes off with a blast and she’s knocked back, a terrifying spasm through her hand as she locks it around the grip, but this time he’s charging at her. She fumbles with it, down on the ground, her fingers slick against the trigger. She pulls it again—the pain of using the bad hand is exquisite and the thing kicks up in her grasp, the force of it surprising her. The shot takes out a branch overhead.

He stumbles forward to avoid the falling limb and slips against the smooth lip, his legs scissoring before he rights himself on the ice. His hand now torn and bleeding too.

“Stay there,” Maeve says. She’s easing herself slowly back to standing. First on one knee, then a half hop to her feet. Her hand seizing up, the hand with the gun in it. She works to keep it steady, trained on him.

He shakes his head.

“No.” He moves toward her, deliberate. “This isn’t the plan, Maeve. Give me the gun.”

Maeve fires, on purpose this time, but the action of pulling the trigger sends a new explosion of pain through her hand. The gun kicks again and she hits the ice at his feet. The power of the revolver is too hard to control and she reaches out to try and steady it with her left hand.

There’s a fault down in the ice, taking a beating. Grinding now, any time he shifts his weight.