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You look up and realize you don’t have time to climb up. ‘This rope is coming down, right now whether I like it or not’. You stop thinking up and focus on your surroundings. You are at the bottom of the rope, about 15 meters from the cliff above you. You look around on your level. Just a few feet away, slightly above where you hang is an edge from the cliff. It’s just out of reach, but you don’t have time. You swing yourself over to the edge and hold on as hard as your fingers can grip. As soon as you jump to the ledge, the large metal hook at the other end of the rope detaches and begins to fall from the cliff. You duck your head and hold tight as the rope and hook smash into the side of the cliff, inches from where you hang. The impact knocks your grip and leaves you hanging from your fingertips…

But you move up, one little bit, one little grip, one little reach at a time. Rain comes pouring down and nearly washes you off the side of the cliff, but you eventually take the last reach pull up. It takes you nearly twenty minutes. When you reach the top of the cliff, you are cold, wet, and aching everywhere. The blood on your hands and face and stomach is dry and thick. You wait not even a minute before you go on.

 

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You now know your name. You now know your role. You now know your life. You now know that you were just on a fur trapping job when your men were attacked by Indians. You know that you survived. You know because you found them; the others, like you. The ones they didn’t kill. You know that they killed so many. But they didn’t kill you. They tried… they didn’t.