My Last Continent: A Novel(17)

“Let me check the battery.”

“Forget it, Keller.” The driving snow is pricking my eyes. “Even if we fix it now, we’re not going to make it back.”

While Antarctic weather is notoriously capricious, I’m annoyed; I can’t believe I let the storm creep up on us this way. Keller is still going on about fixing the Ski-Doo as I pull our survival pack out of its hutch, and I turn and shove it into his chest. “You have no idea what this weather can do,” I shout over the wind. “Get the tent out. Now.”

There’s no time to dig ourselves a trench, which would be the best way to wait out the storm. As it is, we’re barely able to pitch the emergency tent and scurry inside. We’ve got just one extreme-weather sleeping bag and a fleece liner, and I spread them both out over us. Even if the tent weren’t so cramped, the freezing air instinctively draws our bodies close, and without speaking we wrap ourselves up, pulling the fleece to cover us completely, including most of our faces. Despite the protection from the wind and our body heat, it’s probably no more than thirty degrees inside the tent.

“I bet this isn’t what you had in mind when you came to Antarctica,” I say, my voice muffled by the fleece.

“On the contrary,” he says. “This is exactly what I had in mind.”

I turn slightly toward him in the dim light.

“For God’s sake,” I say. “You’re not worried at all, are you?”

He moves his head slightly, and when he speaks I hear a smile in his voice. “I’m impervious to ice.”

This feeling he has—insane, illogical though it is—is one I understand. I’d felt similarly invincible once—at times, my life down here on the continent seemed surreal, a dreamworld in which whatever happened remained separate, protected from real life. It’s a notion that many who come here can relate to, but it lasts only for a brief time.

“You’ve read about the continent’s history, I take it?” I say. “You know how many bad things have happened here.”

“Plenty of miracles, too.”

“Is that what you’re hoping for?”

“Not really,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “Maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know I’m not the first one who’s come here for a change of scenery. Midlife crisis sort of stuff.”

“Definitely not.”

“You wouldn’t have recognized me three years ago,” he says. “I was a lawyer. Married. Nice house outside of Boston. Everything most people want.”

“Everything my mother wanted for me, that’s for sure,” I say. “So what happened?”

A pause, and then he says, “The unthinkable happened.”

He goes quiet. I listen to the rhythm of our breathing, barely audible over the keening of the wind outside. I can tell he is still awake, and I ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

I nod, and we’re close enough that my head nudges against his. We fall silent again, snuggled together like puppies for warmth. As time drifts, I think back on the day’s work, and then I sit up with a start.

“What is it?”

“My notebook,” I say, patting my parka, trying to recall whether I’d stashed it in one of the oversize pockets. “I don’t remember where I put it.”

“It’s in the hutch.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw you put it away.”

I stare at the opening of the tent, though I know it would be foolish to venture outside. “I hope it hasn’t blown away.”

“It won’t. You secured it tight.”

I wonder then if he’s been watching me as closely as I’ve watched him.

“Relax,” he says. I feel his hand on my back, and when I lie down, his arm remains around my shoulders. I feel the day’s exertion, finally, take over, draining my body and mind of what little energy is left. I turn toward Keller, and my icy nose meets the warmth of his neck.

I let my breathing slow, but my eyes remain open wide, fixed on the stubble on Keller’s face, on the spot where his earlobe joins the skin of his jaw. I never imagined I’d find myself in a situation like this again—in a tent with another civilian, another amateur—and a part of me is afraid to sleep, afraid to risk waking up alone.

I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I wake hours later to a bright gold glow. For a long moment, I don’t move, savoring the heat of Keller’s body next to mine. When I sit up, he stirs and opens his eyes. The look on his face is one I haven’t seen in a while—sleepy, not quite sure where he is, a hint of a smile as he remembers.

But it’s not me he’s smiling about; he’s looking past me, at the shadow hovering over my shoulder against the backlit tent.

“The snow,” he says. “Look how high those drifts are.”

Outside the tent, the sun is a halo behind thin clouds, and a light wind lifts the snow, surrounding us with sparkling dust.

We have to kick the snow away to step out of the tent, and I’m glad I’d remembered, at the last minute, to bury a flagged pole in the snow near the Ski-Doo, which is now hidden under several feet of snow. I radio the station to check in, let them know we’ll be on our way soon. By the time I turn back, Keller’s uncovered the snowmobile and is bent over the engine.