Page 61 of Under Story

On the eighth, Laurel wakes to quiet. Snow blankets the dorm vestibule, having leached through the doors, but she can see all the way to Observation Hill.

At lunch, she catches Eli’s eye. When she nods, he nods back. They meet by the hot bar. If they want to dive at sunrise—five thirty in the morning—they’ll have to leave McMurdo by three a.m. They agree to meet in the dive locker by two so that they have plenty of time to check their equipment and load it into the PistenBully.

For the rest of the day, Laurel is possessed by anticipation. She scrubs the sheet pans violently and almost hits a prep cook with the trolley. Louis hasn’t shown up to work. At noon, Laurel finds Jules to ask whether anyone has seen him.

Jules hands her a roll of paper towels. “He called in sick. Can you clean Frosty Boy?”

After her shift, Laurel walks to Louis’s room.

“He isn’t here,” says his roommate, with evident relief. The roommate’s side of the double is orderly; Louis’s is a stew of tarot cards and DVDs, as well as a tangle of costume jewelry. Only his Antarctica Service Medal is neatly displayed.

In the first-floor lounge, the new stewards are playing beer pong. None of them have seen Louis, either. She checks the second-floor lounge and even the sauna, where steam clears to reveal a couple wrapped in the same towel.

Distressed, Laurel returns to her room. Nita forces her to eat while they watch episodes of Buffy. At one thirty in the morning, she begins to get dressed, layering undergarments, adding her shawl and Olga’s hat. She feels little angst about leaving her belongings behind. Her cell phone has gone unused for months; she put her watch, still broken, on one of Skua’s empty shelves. If she doesn’t return, her clothes can go to Skua, to be used by someone else.

Nita issues reminders. “Make sure you connect your gloves to the dry suit. You can only stay underwater as long as your extremities are warm. If you lose any dexterity, come up right away.”

“You know,” Laurel says, “I’ll miss you bossing me around.”

“Bossing people is my love language.”

Laurel wraps Nita in a hug, and Nita holds on. Laurel sinks into the comfort of it: Nita’s familiar gardenia scent, her thick hair falling over Laurel’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Laurel says. “You could have told me I was crazy.”

“I do think you’re crazy,” says Nita. “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

—

Laurel doesn’t have time to look for Louis in the bars, but she can’t leave without checking the galley.

He stands in front of Frosty Boy. Laurel nearly cries.

“Jules said you were sick,” she says, running over.

“I’m fine.” Louis overturns a container of sprinkles and smacks it until a stale clump falls out. “I just needed a mental health day.”

“You could have told me.”

Louis registers her emotion with surprise, though he’s clearly pleased to see her worry over him.

“Christ,” he says, “nobody’s dying. But I am glad you’re here. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

“I don’t have time,” Laurel says, but he presses something into her palm anyway: a square of chocolate, wrapped in cellophane.

Louis grins conspiratorially. “Now, what do you think that is?”

“Louis,” Laurel says, “I really can’t—”

“You’re no fun. I’ll give you a hint. ‘They walk in the night and grow in the day. You’ll find them wherever there’s death or decay.’ ”

She stares at him. “Mushrooms?”

“One of the newbies brought them over. Supposed to be a decent dose. We’d better eat them quick, in case someone tattles; that sort of thing can get you booted off the island.”

Laurel shakes her head, pressure building at her eyes.

“I came to say goodbye. There’s something I have to do tonight,” she says, and then she has her arms around him.