My hands are swollen, gripping a cold metal compass that hardly works, this close to the south pole. Through the blowing snow I force my eyes open, trying to study the red and blue needles. The wind tosses me left and right as if I weigh nothing more than a loose tarp, as I stagger in the snow. The chill had seeped under my skin long before now, and in all my numbness I wish so hard that I could feel something. The gale kicks up ice from the snow banks, further damaging my vision.

I shut my eyes tight. There is no point in having them open. I can hardly see a hand in front of my face much less the path I had come from, and last time I checked, my fingers were turning a hideous shade of blue.

The wind cuts through my puffed coat, though my pockets, through me. I shuffle along, keeping my toes moving in my boots. One of my boot spikes had come loose when I rolled down a drift some minutes earlier, and now half of my body is sliding in half-circles. My other boot clings hopefully to the ground, catching on whatever it can grab.

I am beyond shivering, it seems. I know that's bad, but in the moment I don't remember why. I am trying to set the thought aside. Negativity never got you anywhere in survival situations; I should know. Instead, my thoughts swim with visions of a warm heater back at the lab, and a soft bunk. Maybe they'll put me in Sören's quarters finally, then I won't hit my head every time I sit up.

Sören—is he covered in snow by now?

Stay positive. There is no light through my eye lids. Don't panic.

It's not setting in. To me, I'm simply struggling in the dark, not stranded in the barren wilderness, with no way of knowing what direction I'm going. For all I know, I could be walking towards the heart of the land. The banks are always changing around me, so there is nothing to mark which way I had come from. It's as if I'm Charles Ingalls in that blizzard on Plum Creek, only he had candy. And trees. And a creek.

In a violent gust of wind my knees give out from under me, and I'm thrown into the snow. It should nip at my face but it doesn't. I try to get to my feet, but it is like waves are crashing over me, beating me down. I heave a breath, the air burning my lungs. It is just like that time in Hawaii, when I had nearly drowned.

My body's sore. The bitter land is drawing me in. I want to scream, but I'm so tired. Ice beats against my face as I lay here, arms like wood beneath me. The howl of the gale has long become a monotonous ringing in my ears, it's hard to imagine that I'd once heard music. Strings and operas, people dancing and drinking.

In my pocket I clutch the compass tighter.

The land is washing over me. In a matter of minutes, I'll be covered in snow, suffocating, buried alive.

No one will ever find my body, and without me, no one will ever find Sören.

I'm searching for something motivational, something in me to keep going, but all I can think about is home, covered in trees and snowless. My old house, my childhood home, is sitting prim and dainty on the small plot of land my family used to cultivate, to habitate. The neighbors are probably making a big pot of atole to combat the chill; a chill that to me in this moment is laughable, if only my lungs didn't hurt so bad.

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Home. It's flickering in and out of my vision, like a dying candle. It's been so long since I've seen it, since I've seen them.

How did I get here?

I'm confused. Why am I here again? What was my reason for leaving warm California?

Here I am, scarcely out running death and all I want is a mug of atole.

Atole, atole—no, it's more than that. I want it back. I want it all back. Crissie and Paula—it's been so long since I've heard their voices, since we laughed together.

They're not home. I know they're not home. They are never going to go back home.

Mom's gone too. They've all gone.

Why am I here again?

My head hurts

What with this ringing.

The flickering I see on my eyelids is going out.

How did I get here?

I'll do what Sören always says,

When he still emitted oxygen.

'Retrace your steps',

'Retrace your steps, and you'll always find your way home again'.

So I think really hard,

I retrace every track

Country by country,

Friend by friend,

Year by year,

I retrace all the way

Back to when—

—when I began

All this wandering

All this searching

All this suffering

Back further

And further

Until I see—

Remember,

All that had

Once been

The start

Of a grand

Adventure

On that fateful—

Fateful day

In June.