The hairs under my arms have grown. They’re straight and an inch or so long. I raise my arms in front of the mirror and stare at my armpits. I’ve never had hair under there. I began shaving when I was twelve. My stepmother gave me a razor as a present and I thought it was immensely cool. And now, fourteen years later, I have my first underarm hair. I like it. I’m not wearing makeup or scent. I have just a few changes of clothes. Everything I need is in a pack I can carry on my back.

It’s a spare life and it feels good. I want to hold onto it but I’m not sure if I can.

Emails accumulate under my door. Max’s worried he’ll lose me in the hugeness and the busyness of the big smoke on my return.

I feel so removed from you. It feels like worlds have been traversed but we’re so far apart.

He swiftly gets a return email: he’s not going to lose me.

Blanca emails. She’s found a lover. ‘Corgi’. A carpenter from Darwin. She says word’s got around among the men in the Davis workshop, and her man ‘is being get hell. They will not stop at getting him.’ I laugh and laugh.

I begin emailing my family and mates back home. I tell them I’ve met a man. I’ve left the telling until now because I wanted to wait for it to move into something certain. The questions begin. How old, what does he do, how did you meet? Where does he live? Does he love books? Is he funny? Is he the one? How do you feel?

My joy feels as tall as the sky.

The question I love the most is, is he hairy? I’m not sure what they expect of these Antarctic blokes. Is it going to be disappointing if I tell them he’s a clean-shaven, grey-haired thirty-eight year old who’s terribly clever and loves movies and animals and cooking and joints and books? And he’s gentle and funny and I love him? I tell them exactly that.

Sebastian is sitting in the birdwatching chair on the bridge. He’s been doing a stint as doctor at Mawson. I stand beside him with a set of binoculars and stare out at the white. We talk about snow petrels and the thinning ice and eating mangoes again and wearing singlets and when he’s laughing I slip in that I’d like to interview him about his time on the station, and how he’s changed, and how he’s preparing for home.

He looks at me and says oh yeah, you’re the journalist. He tells me he wouldn’t be very good. He tells me to find someone else. I say okay. I’m tired of chasing interviews, of pushing myself at people.