Page 65 of Under Story

“You left it in the dive hut.”

Of course: she hadn’t brought it through the portal. But then—

“My shawl was in the PistenBully.”

“So was my backpack,” says Eli slowly.

The galley is only a short walk. At the entrance, Laurel begins to sweat. Before she can reach for the handle, it turns from the inside. Another couple exits, holding the door open for them.

—

At first, all is commotion. Then the shapes she knows become themselves: the round tables and panini press, the hot-food bar and Frosty Boy. A man in a cook’s uniform is walking toward them, his ponytail held back in a hairnet. Laurel stares until she recognizes him as Miles. Yesterday, his head was shaved.

“Steady,” murmurs Eli.

“You’re late,” Miles says. “We need backup in the dish pit.”

But he isn’t talking to her. Laurel turns. Brown curls, his baseball cap on sideways: Louis looks just the way he has for all the time she’s known him.

“Be thankful you don’t work in the galley,” Louis says, sidling up to her. “Miles is always a nightmare at the end of the summer, but it’s worse this year.” He gives her a sly look. “How are you feeling?”

Laurel smells sausages and scrambled eggs. When they left for Cape Evans, it was night, and October 8 had just ended.

“It’s morning,” she says.

“Still upside down? Me, too.” Louis links an arm through hers and meanders toward the kitchen. “Well, I can’t say I’ve divined the meaning of life. But the ceiling moved, and so did Patrick’s freckles. He wanted to go to the sauna, and then I lost track of you.”

Eli lags behind them. Frowning, Louis stops.

“Why are you being so weird? Are you two having a row?” He looks from Laurel to Eli, who freezes. “And why did you shave your beard?”

Then two things happen at once: an ANITA physicist taps Eli’s shoulder, and someone shouts, “Oy!”—Nita, in her purple sweater and silver clip. When she sees Laurel, her eyebrows lift. Louis puts his hands on Laurel’s shoulders and steers her to the chair next to Sam.

“Careful with this one,” he says. “She’s not herself.”

“Neither am I,” says Nita. To Laurel, she adds: “Well, we had to see you off, didn’t we?”

“Bit more fun than looking at them through a microscope,” says Louis.

“At what?” Laurel asks.

“Mushrooms.” He fluffs her hair affectionately. “Doesn’t know her own name, does she? I guess that’s why they call it a trip.”

Sam stands. “I was just about to get more coffee. Laurel, I’ll bring you some.”

“Here.” Nita pushes a waffle toward Laurel. “Eat.”

Louis and Nita chatter while he helps himself to Laurel’s waffle. Then he shimmies to the kitchen, leaving Laurel with Nita.

“Laurel,” Nita says, “did you—?”

“Caff-eine!” sings Sam, delivering Laurel’s mug of coffee. A foamy white dollop sinks through the center. “I beat a geologist to the last lump of Frosty Boy. Hey, where’s Eli?”

Laurel looks over one shoulder. Both Eli and the physicist are gone. When she turns back around, Nita is staring at her with discomfiting scrutiny.

“I should find him,” says Laurel, standing.

Steady. But she isn’t, can’t be. She walks heavy-legged through the uncanny. A photograph of a ship hangs on the wall, but it’s in color, not black and white, and it isn’t the Endurance. A New York Times article has been pinned to the bulletin board: “After Efforts to Combat Surface Melt, West Antarctic Ice Sheet Gains Mass.”