The descent into Antarctica takes Laurel by surprise. There are no windows on the plane, so she can’t see the ice rise to meet her.

The aircraft, a C-17, is taller than any commercial vessel; ten feet above her head, the ceiling curves like a spaceship. People sit along the perimeter, most wearing headphones, some sleeping in the Big Red jackets they received at the Clothing Distribution Center in New Zealand. The newcomers keep their seat belts on. One of the old-timers—a man in Carhartts, sunglasses, and a ­short-sleeved shirt—unbuckles, ducks below chains, and lies down against a wooden cargo container, a novel tucked under his elbow.

Across from Laurel, a Black woman crosses her arms over her stomach, her short Afro behind a headband. A white man dozes into his scarf; little more than his brown curls are visible. He opens his eyes just before they touch down. During spring and ­summer—which take place, at the bottom of the world, from October to February—the Ross Sea is still eight feet thick, strong enough to serve as a runway.

Passengers shoulder into their jackets and begin to deplane: the ­old-timers sure-footed, the newcomers waddling in their government-issued boots. Cold sweeps over them in waves. The sky reminds Laurel less of Earth than of some gaseous planet, streams of indigo and violet and shocking pink, the setting sun layered between them. The mountain ranges glint behind a haze of blowing snow.

A giant red vehicle trundles toward them; “IVAN” THE TERRA BUS is painted on one side. Ivan’s driver, a cheerful man in a balaclava, tells them that the bus weighs seventy thousand pounds. Laurel takes a seat beside the woman who sat across from her on the plane. After fifteen minutes, the driver announces that they’ve crossed the transition point where ice gives way to solid rock, and Laurel’s hands unclench. Soon she sees the drab mid-century buildings that make up McMurdo Station.

The woman sitting next to Laurel snorts. “I didn’t think Antarctica would look like February in Wisconsin.”