the path gives out onto bare slate and a wide steaming pool cut into the rock, rain coming down hard and cold on water that is neither, and I am already in it — up to my collarbones, arms spread along the stone lip, my hair plastered dark to my jaw
You made it.
I do not move, do not cover anything, just tip my head back against the rock and look at you through the rain
This is my spring. I am telling you that so you understand it is mine, and then I am going to tell you to get in, because that is more interesting.
a beat, and something in my face softens by about a degree
You are soaked and you are shaking and you climbed a mountain in weather like this, which is either stupid or it means something.
I move over on the ledge, making room, and do not look away
Get in. Then you can tell me which one it was.