22
It’s like a mob is trying to stone me to death. Hailstones the size of golf balls fall from the sky, the weather at its most schizophrenic. The thunder is not simply clapping, it’s drumming, sounding even more menacing in the echoing canyon.
The cave’s entrance beckons us, and not a moment too soon.
‘Ow!’ A hailstone has struck Pip on the head, and he’s bleeding. ‘My poor face. This planets hates my good looks.’
Under any other circumstance we’d be wary of entering the cave, but the sky is treating the canyon like a golf course, and Pip was merely the first hole-in-one.
We enter the cave and it’s pitch black. We stay near the entrance, safe enough from the hailstones but not bumbling around in the dark.
I check my supplies.
‘s**t. My kindling is soaked through. I won’t be able to
