Joe remained my mentor throughout my teen years and helped me get into Princeton. It had been three years since we had last talked.

What was he doing in East Antarctica?

“Listen to that katabatic wind, Zachary. It sounds like an earthquake, like machine-gun fire pelting the outside of the dome.”

“Why are you here, Joe? Did you travel all this way to wish me luck? You know, if it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

The kind eyes vanished. “Now that’s a helluva thing to say. I trained you to think like a scientist, not a reality show buffoon. First, that nonsense back at Loch Ness— and now this? You disappoint me, Zachary.”

I sat up, my heart racing. “But I resolved the identity of the Loch Ness Monster. I thought you’d be proud.”

“Proud: Derived from the word pride, as in self-pride, the abuse of which amounts to ego. Yes, son, you resolved the mystery of a large biologic inhabiting an ocean-access lake and then identified the species and the circumstances which led to its extraordinary adaptations. Only you weren’t satisfied, were you? You went after the creature by using yourself as bait. Do you think I would have been filled with pride at your funeral? Is that why I encouraged you to become a marine biologist, so that one day I could brag to your wife and child at your gravesite how I had mentored you back in school?

“And Vostok—where’s the scientific method in this mission? You should be launching a thousand drones into the lake, shooting video, and taking water samples to analyze every square mile of its Miocene elements. There’d be enough data to study for the next twenty years. Instead, you fell for the lure of stardom, choosing to risk your life in a manned submersible just so you could say you were the first. That’s what I’ll say at your eulogy: ‘Zachary Wallace, best student I ever had, and the first schmuck in history to die exploring a subglacial lake.’

“There’s no science in committing suicide, son. At the end of the day, it’s a selfish act that leaves behind only sorrow. You need to wake up, Zachary. Wake up… .”

“Zachary, wake-up!”

I was dead to the world, my brain encased in wet cement; yet through the inebriated fog, I felt a smooth velvet tingling of delight working its way around my groin, and through its arousal I awoke from my drug-induced stupor.

Then I realized the hand rubbing the inside of my thigh didn’t belong to my wife, and my eyes flashed open in sudden panic.

True stood over me, a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. “Ken that would wake ye. So who was ye dreamin’ aboot? Ming or my sister?”

“No one, you big douchebag. What time is it?”

“Time tae get dressed. Ye launch within the hour. That yer Gatorade?”