Page 5 of Under Story

Charlie sets a drawing pad beside the graphic novels, as well as a case of colored pencils.

“I wish I’d brought something to do with my hands,” says Laurel, watching. “I didn’t realize how much time I’d have without a working cell phone. My family raised sheep. I used to knit.”

“There’s always extra yarn around here,” Nita says. “Or you can unravel something I’ve made. I wear my knits until I get sick of them; then I frog them and make something else.”

Above Nita’s bed hangs a woven textile made at a recycling mill in Panipat, the Indian city where her grandparents were born. Beside that is a large bulletin board with an octopus calendar—Nita studies the boneless, muscular arms—and an assortment of photographs. In one, she sits on the beach with a man in glasses, her head against his chest; in another, she’s thrown her arms around the neck of a woman on a skateboard.

“No one knows what to bring the first time they come,” Louis adds. “Yarn, decent wine, condoms: those are the really valuable commodities. And costumes for parties.”

“Last year,” says Nita, “Louis filled the suitcase he should have used for cold-weather gear with one rubber horse head.”

“Make fun of me now, but you’ll be begging for my monocle on Murder Mystery night.” Louis points at Nita with the polish brush. “Now, quality sex toys. That’s something no one thinks to bring.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Charlie, and Nita hoots. “What’s your story, Laurel?”

“I was a mycologist. I studied fungi.”

Laurel smooths Eucerin into her knuckles. Antarctica sees less rain than the Sahara, and the hot water in the dish pit makes skin even drier. At the end of each shift, the stewards pass a bottle of lotion around as if engaging in some holy ritual.

“I guess I still do,” she adds. “But I’m taking a leave of absence. In August, I got divorced.”

This is far from the whole truth, but it’s the easiest explanation. The others grimace sympathetically. In fact, no one at McMurdo questions her path from the lab to the galley. Plenty of stewards are in their twenties: recent college graduates, or those who chose to travel instead. A sizable portion, like Laurel and Charlie, have put their lives on hold to see something few ever will. Yet others—the lifers—treat McMurdo not as a left turn but as a destination. One morning, Laurel meets Miranda, a janitor, who has an English PhD.

“Everybody back home thinks I’m crazy. But I knew I’d actually go crazy if I had to do another job interview. The Modern Language Association holds this conference every year, and colleges use it as a chance to do all their interviews at once—which would be fine if you didn’t have to shell out thousands for the flights, the hotel, and the conference fee. You don’t even get to sit at a table, like a normal person. You’re in somebody’s hotel room, perched on a double bed! And if you do get a job, you’ll be teaching four courses a year while grinding out a book for tenure, all while making fifty thousand dollars a year,” Miranda says. “My parents think that what I do here is insulting. But I get to live in a beautiful place. I read, and I write, and I have great company.”

Laurel sees what she means about the company. Socializing with Nita, Louis, and Charlie has become her primary form of entertainment. The first party takes place that weekend at Gallagher’s, one of the station’s two bars.

“I love the start of season,” Louis says. “It’s so hopeful.” He leads them out of Building 155 to the tune of “Summer Nights,” singing both John Travolta’s and Olivia Newton-John’s lines in the same genderless belt, and Laurel laughs because it’s frigid, snow blowing up to their knees. Gallagher’s is little more than an open room with a wooden bar and an arcade game called Galaga, but Louis squeals as though it’s his favorite attraction on the continent. Laurel and Charlie find seats while Nita and Louis greet the bartender. They return with four beers and a bowl of pretzels.

“Where’s Sam?” Louis shouts. At the other end of the bar, a band is covering Cake.

Nita takes a handful of pretzels. “She’s been unloading fuel all day.”

“Who’s Sam?” asks Charlie.

It must be fifty degrees warmer in the bar than it is outside: most of the men have stripped down to T-shirts, and some women dance bare-legged in dresses, their coats heaped in a corner. Miles, the sous chef, is playing drums, his neck shiny with sweat.

“Sam is Nita’s ice wife,” Louis says.

“Ice wife?” asks Laurel.

Nita rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Ice wives, ice husbands—the person you’re with while you’re down here.”

“Oh, but the story is much more interesting than that,” Louis says.

Nita tosses a pretzel at him. “You tell them, then.”

“Nita and Sam have been together for five years. They both spend the summer season at McMurdo. Then Sam goes back to Santa Cruz while Nita flies to Seattle—and Sanjeet, her land husband.”

“It’s all aboveboard,” says Nita, in a tone of mild protest. “Nobody is going behind anyone’s back.”

“We’re all fascinated.” Louis has already drained half his beer.

“Man,” Charlie says. “I wish I could do that. But I’d be too jealous, wondering what each person was doing the other half of the time.”

“See, I think of it the opposite way,” says Nita. “Why would I have half of something wonderful when it’s possible to have twice as much? The same goes for my husband, and for Sam—I’d rather they have more love in their lives than less. Really, I don’t understand why more people don’t do it.”

Fear, thinks Laurel. Fear of what might happen if you unseal that closed loop.