Bakari and Kito entered the tent then, cheerful as usual. “How did everyone sleep?” Bakari asked.
None of us had been sleeping. It was a reality of the high altitude.
“Great,” I lied.
Scotty’s eyes were puffy. “I slept like shit again.”
“Are you okay, Van?” I asked as I sat down across from him. I could see now that he looked gray. It was alarming.
He seemed grateful for my concern. “Don’t feel great, to be honest.”
“You should all drink and eat,” Bakari said confidently. “Somedays your body will adjust right away, and sometimes it needs time to catch up. We will check your numbers and see.”
“Today is when things will become more challenging,” Kito said with the bright smile that somehow softened the blow whenever he delivered bad news. “The wind will be stronger, the climb more steep.”
Richard laughed stiffly. “That’s a relief. Up until now, it’s been way too easy.”
Bakari smiled. “Yesterday is always the most challenging day before today.”
Kito began his usual routine with the pulse oximeter, handing it first to Brooks. I poured myself coffee and clutched the plastic mug in my hands, trying to warm my fingertips. We’d all learned quickly that this was the best way to get a higher blood-oxygen reading. It was still a competition, even if the thing we were competing against now was our own anxiety. Blood-oxygen numbers could get extremely low during the ascent, much lower than a person could ever withstand at sea level. And our resting pulse rates would rise. How we were feelingcombinedwith the numbers was apparently the best predictor of our safety and whether we could or should continue on.
It was scary watching the numbers get worse each day—as though we were slowly but surely killing ourselves. Which we were, in a way. By 13,500 feet, we already felt a little unwell most of the time—headache, nausea, hard time breathing, lightheadedness. And that waswithdaily altitude medication. It was always an option to turn back and reverse your symptoms as soon as you descended, at least theoretically. But as we’d already heard from Bakari many times, it was sometimes, in rare cases, still too late. And so how sick, exactly, was too sick? And would any of us really know when we were approaching the point of no return? The uncertainty had begun to feel like a sixth member of our crew.
Van reluctantly took the pulse oximeter last. “Ninety,” he said. “Pulse, one hundred and five.”
We all fell silent as Kito wrote down the numbers in his ledger.They were not good, especially for Van, who had been second to me each time. And we still had a long way to go.
“And how are you feeling, Van?” Bakari asked.
“The headache is still pretty bad, even though I already took four Advil.”
Bakari nodded, rubbed his chin, considering. “Do you feel like you can go on?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Van said without hesitating.
Richard, Scotty, and Brooks exchanged a look, but none of them said a word—masculine bravado carrying the day.
“Are you sure, Van?” I pressed, because someone needed to. “You should think of your family.”
“Frankie is right,” Richard said. “I’ll turn back with you right now if you want.”
“I’d never ask you to do that,” Van said, looking genuinely moved by Richard’s offer.
“But I would. Happily,” Richard said. Whatever tension had passed between them earlier was forgotten now.
Van’s expression softened as he stood. “I know that, and I appreciate it, my friend. I do.” He clapped Richard on the back. “But I’m seeing this thing through to the bitter end.”
***
An endless line snakes down the block when we arrive at Las Nacionales. People will wait for hours these days for a table, but I text Thalia when we get there.Any chance for two?I always feel uncomfortable asking, but Thalia insists. In fact, if the NYU gang doesn’t keep coming by the restaurant at regular intervals, we’ll get a text to the group chat:Where the fuck are all of you?Thalia is one of those hot, young, tattooed chefs thatNew Yorkmagazine loves to profile. Her skills are unparalleled, her story compelling—the daughter of Cuban immigrants who graduated with honors from NYU, then worked her way up from dishwasher to sous chef at some of New York City’s premier restaurants.
“This is my friend Thalia’s first restaurant. She’s been busting her ass for years to get here. I’m so happy for her.”
“She’s part of your college group?”
I nod. “They’re like family. I never really had much of one growing up. My mom did her best but…”
Richard glances my way. “My family left a lot to be desired, too.”
