Curtis nods; before her hands slip free, he gives them one more quick squeeze. "Be back in a minute," he says, and goes to search the ground for something useable.

In one of the denser patches of grass, the snow dips and rises into an oddly smooth curve. Squatting down, Curtis brushes the snow aside to reveal a fallen branch as big as his arm, the bark peeling off in a few spots, the rest of it solid and intact. He gives it a thump just to be sure, but nothing crumbles with rot.

Perfect.

He hefts it up, dusts off more snow, and trudges back toward Dejah.