Hard tug. All right. Cassandra exhales, digs in, and braces herself. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, eyes on the edge of the hole. Watching for him. It feels like an eternity, even though she knows it isn’t. Knows it doesn’t take nearly as long as it feels like. But she’s tense and waiting. Worried.

And then he’s counting, and there’s the hard tug, and she holds on, until she sees fingers catch over the edge, hears the sound of scrabbling against the wall, and she’s reaching for him, the rope still twined tight around one hand, her other hand catching his arm and she pulls. Not hard. But enough to try and give him upward momentum. Keeping him from sliding back.

A small, determined anchor.