He says he’s paring down his life to a glorious simplicity in the ice and he wants to hold onto it. He says Bruce Chatwin wrote that if the world has a future, it has an ascetic one.

I walk away from the computer thinking about scrubbing my life spare. The trouble is, where to begin?

On the mess whiteboard, a note for me, to ring Rex urgently. It’s the code name we’ve made up for Max. I rush to the communications centre, to a soundproof booth. The chopper’s locked in. He’s coming several days before I depart. As he tells me I’m reminded of the girl at school with a strange disease in her ears that made her feel as light and buoyant as a feather. She’d tell me that she felt as if she always had to hold onto the doorposts to stop herself from floating away.

I’m floating with joy, my happiness is sky-high. I love this place.

Cold kicks our faces as we step outside. William, Blanca, Andrea, Wesley and I are walking into the hills. Our destination’s a rarely visited, frozen lake nestled faraway within the folds of the Vestfold Hills. We’re on a jolly, an expedition that’s purely for fun. I carry a spare battery for the VHF radio in the breast pocket of my woollen shirt. My body heat will nurture the battery’s fragile energy.

In a tall pack on Wesley’s back are enough provisions for a night in the cold, even though the walk is designated as a day only. The provisions are in case we get caught out. The weather can turn quickly. Wesley knows how to build an igloo and a snow cave and he knows the signs of frostbite and fatigue. Everyone’s filled out a form detailing where they’re going and how they’re getting there. Except me. Everyone’s hung their dogtags on the hooks in the living quarters to alert the others that they’re away. Except me. I’m not supposed to be with the group. They’re sneaking me away.