“Still blowing a blizzard then?” shouted Rusty as Clint threw himself into the tent.
“Yeah, but we don’t give up. Only two thousand feet more. We can be up and down in eight hours.”
“We’ve done well. Come far together. As mates. As climbers.”
Clint didn’t answer immediately. He knew Rusty was having an affair with his wife and he knew Rusty didn’t know he knew.
“Yeah, good mates.” Clint lit another candle.
“So tomorrow,” asked Rusty, “That ice bridge. Reckon we’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, we’ll be roped up, if, y’know … .”
Clint smiled to himself in the semi-gloom.
This for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers 100 word challenge.