Keller nods and follows me, just as slowly and carefully as I’ve instructed. In addition to counting the birds—a job made easier by the fact that they’re molting and standing still—I slip quietly among them to inspect carcasses on the ground. The dead are mostly chicks, killed by starvation or skuas—the mean-beaked predators that feed off penguin eggs and dead chicks—but this means that at least the adults are making it back out to the ocean to feed.
It isn’t until later that afternoon, when I press my hand into an ache in my back, that Keller suggests we take a break. “You haven’t stopped once,” he says.
I look at my watch—it’s been five hours since we left the station. And it occurs to me that Keller hasn’t stopped either; he hasn’t gotten cold or tired or hungry.
“I always lose track of time out here,” I say, almost to myself.
He swings his slim backpack off his shoulder. “I brought lunch.”
“You go ahead,” I say.
“You forgot to bring food, didn’t you?”
“I don’t usually eat when I’m in the field.”
“I have enough for both of us,” he says. “Sit down.”
He shakes out a small, waterproof blanket, and we settle down about thirty yards away from the birds. I don’t bother looking at Keller’s food—vegans become accustomed to not sharing meals. It can be rare even to meet garden-variety vegetarians down here.
But Keller’s pack is filled with fruit and bread, with containers of leftover rice and beans and salad. “Seriously?” I ask.
“Rabbit food, I know,” he says, as if he’s had to defend his food a hundred times before. “It’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
I almost laugh with the sudden pleasure of this strange, simple thing—sitting with Keller on the ice, sharing a meal among the molting emperors, on a blindingly bright Antarctic day. It’s been so long since I’ve made a connection with someone else. I haven’t been with anyone since Dennis, and even after a year, it hasn’t been difficult; in fact, life’s been a lot simpler. Or maybe I’ve just managed to convince myself of that.
In science, in the natural world, things make sense. Animals act on instinct—of course, they have emotions, personalities; they can be cheeky or manipulative or surprising—but, unlike humans, they don’t cause intentional harm. Humans are a whole different story, and I learned at a young age that, in most people, meanness is more instinctual than kindness. I’d been a boyish kid—tall for my age, with cropped blond hair, a science geek. After being physically kicked out of the girls’ restroom in junior high by girls who were convinced I was a boy, I grew my hair halfway down my back. I wore it that long, usually braided, until just last year, when I chopped it to right below my chin—long enough to look like a female, since I never wear makeup, and to still be able to pull it back and out of the way.
“What is it?” Keller asks. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, and he hands me a fork.
“How long have you been with the APP?” he asks.
“About eight, nine years.” I take a bite of salad and rice. “And what about you? What did you do before entering the world of janitorial services?”
He shrugs. “Something a lot less interesting.”
There’s something closed off about the way he speaks, and I don’t ask him anything else. We finish eating, and I get back to work. Despite my earlier vow not to cater to Keller’s schedule, I get everything loaded back into the snowmobile in time to return to the base for his shift.
That night, I lie awake in bed for a long time, despite the exhaustion that sears the space behind my eyes. A lot of people have trouble sleeping at this time of year, thanks to nearly twenty-four-hour daylight, but I know this isn’t the reason.
The next day, Keller’s waiting for me at the MEC again, and he asks if he can help me count the birds.
“Did you bring me lunch?”
He nods.
“All right, then.”
At the colony, I spend more time observing Keller than counting the birds. I watch how carefully he moves among the penguins, clicking their numbers on my counter. I watch his eyes inspect every inch of the carcasses we kneel beside, as I explain how to identify the cause of death. “Only an autopsy can determine if their stomachs are empty,” I tell him, pointing at a thin, hollowed-out body, “but you can see here that this one was in really poor condition. Hardly any body fat at all.”
I become so absorbed in the work that I fail to notice the wind whipping up around us. It isn’t until I feel icy snow pelting my face that I look up and see that there’s no longer a delineation between ice and sky, that the world has gone white.