He looks me straight in the eyes. He doesn’t smile.

Walking into the station living quarters is like walking into a small airport lounge. Don’t be disappointed, my sweet.

Max’s warning, via an email. A feeling of deflation settles on me like dust as I step from the exhilarating wideness of outside into the cramped cold porch of the living quarters. The air’s close and stale. Around me is a jumble of wet parkas and freezer suits and boots and hats. Beyond is a room almost disappointingly plush. There aren’t many people. The new faces that are here aren’t welcoming. There are one or two quick shy smiles as people rush past. That’s it. I’ve arrived. I wonder what to do.

‘Feel my fingers.’

The skin on his thumb feels different. It doesn’t have the bounce of fresh flesh in it. I press his skin and release my finger. The crater stays in the pad of his thumb. It doesn’t fill out for a very long time. It’s like an old, soft orange.

‘My fingers have gone off for good, Fin. I’ve wrecked ’em.’

It’s Dip’s third trip down. The first time was when he was twenty-two. He’s thirty-three but his face is young, as though the cold has snap-frozen his ageing. He’s from a town in Tasmania’s south. Pamela has assigned him to show me around. He’s almost frighteningly beautiful. It’s a beauty that warns you away.