He’s already a half-mile into the island when the plane grumbles overhead. He imagines his tourists peering out of their tiny portholes, perhaps glimpsing his figure lumbering, bearlike, across the ice. Would they mistake him for something extinct? Would they notice him at all? Either way, they must be wondering why he isn’t with them. His seat is empty. Maybe they’re unfolding their glossy brochures, rereading his promise to escort them safely back to Hobart, and from there, to Melbourne. It’s not as if it will be difficult to make the transfer on their own. They’ve got their tickets in hand. They’ll figure it out.
The only other time that Sam saw his father cry, in all of their years together, was when he drove Sam out to college and dropped him there on campus. He claimed not to understand why Sam had chosen to attend an institution a thousand miles away from home. His father drew Sam close in a hard and painful hug, his whole body shaking and his voice catching on the inside of his throat when he said his hoarse good-bye. Once released, Sam stood on the sidewalk with his luggage beside him and watched his father return to his place beside the wheel, ease the car forward, take a right around the corner, and vanish.
As he trudges, step by step, over the blinding, shimmering plain, he wonders what he’ll do when he finds one. Pitch his polar tent, set up his frozen camp? Make his way back to the station, tracking his own footprints, to tell the scientists that they’ve all been terribly mistaken? Return his sister’s emails, call his failing father? No, no. None of that. Instead, he’ll simply stand there, exhausted, swaying on his trembling limbs while the sweat dries beneath his parka and the snow shines more brightly than the sun and his heartbeat throbs against his forehead. This is what he came for, he’ll tell himself, whispering so as not to startle her away.