After all, the whole business remained supposition—conclusions jumped to like fourth graders in a schoolyard hopscotch game.
Dean leaped on Shipton, clawing away at the soft snow, pummeling him like an eighth grade schoolyard brawler while Shipton, still clutching his ice ax in one hand, swung at Dean, catching him on the cheek and face with the side of the solid handle.
To Dean, the tunnel was even more claustrophobic as he hunched forward, taking baby steps like a second grade schoolyard game.
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