We ran the ridge back the way we'd come—low, steady, no show. Wind tugged at collars and tried to pick fights, but our flags held: short ties, low posts, tucked behind stone. At the switchback we took the rope on hands and knees again. The line hummed a slow beat through my palms. Honest work.
In the bowl we passed a team arguing with their tall flags. A gust bullied the cloth and made the poles chatter. A proctor marked their slate without looking up. We kept moving. Pelham glanced once, swallowed a comment, saved his breath for the stair cut. Good. He was learning which parts of him helped and which parts got in the way.
We reached the start marker with our bundle empty and our lines tidy. Pierce checked depth with a leather measure, tugged each knot, and grunted. He wrote something on his board and tipped his chalk at Mira.
"Tags?"
"Logged," she said. Her script was clean even with wind-grease on her fingers.
