I move before I hear the snap.
Half a second before. Muscles ahead of conscious thought. I'm already airborne, lunging flat across the stone, when the rope cracks above me and the whole line goes dead in the air.
My right hand finds it.
The rope is already running—loose, no tension, sliding through my fingers fast enough to burn. I wrap my forearm twice on reflex and the coil bites into my skin through the sleeve.
Then the weight hits.
It yanks me forward across the stone, face-down, the coarse grit of the cavern floor scraping my chest and stomach raw through the layers of my gear. I'm sliding toward the edge of the chasm, hand fused to a rope that has Lola on the other end of it.
I dig my boots in. Rotate my body as I slide. Plant both feet against the grain of the stone and brace.
A stalagmite. Small, leaning, maybe three feet tall at the very lip of the chasm. The last one between me and the drop.
I jam my boots into its base and lock.
