Dip asks me for my beer ration. It’s a slab a month for every expeditioner, courtesy of the Australian government. I hand it over with a hug, keen to make up to him. He grins and asks me for my chocolate ration too. I say no bloody way.

We get eight chocolate bars a month. And fresh bread every day. Chilli rises at four to bake it. He says the food people request most is what mum cooks. There’s meat and three veg, in some combination, every lunch and dinner time. Every expeditioner takes a turn at cooking, on a rotating roster, on Sundays. It gives Chilli a day off. Wesley’s specialty is toast and Vegemite. William says he’ll be raiding the freezer for the prime rump steaks. Blanca is ordered to cook paella. Jim serves up field survival ration packs. There’s uproar in the mess.

‘Most people have learnt to just go hungry on Sundays,’ says Dip, laughing. ‘Most of us can afford to. We all get fat down here.’

He’s not. There’s a gym in another shipping container and he uses it every day. Max starts asking me about this Dip guy.

‘I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like him.’

Max tells me Anya has teamed up with the chef at Mawson. He tells me he wants to drink me.

Jim corners me in the hydroponics shed. Asks me did I ask Max about what he does in the real world and says do I want to fuck. I push past him. There’s a wetness to his skin and his eyes. He’s been drinking.

‘Come on, Fin, we’re old mates,’ he yells after me, and laughs. ‘It was only a suggestion.’

Drunk men scare me. I can’t anticipate their next move.

We swallow wind as we grip tightly to the sides of the back of the ute. The truck’s travelling speedily along the ice highway to the ship. Bergs, islands and the stretch of still white are all around us. There’s wide sky and air that’s knife sharp. It makes me feel vividly alive.