It seemed like an eternity before the storm had departed, leaving as fast as it had come. When I could see again, I was greeted by the sight of my team lying sprawled out in the snow. Some were coughing, shaking, breathing great lungfuls of air now that the storm had passed. With a jolt, I realised that John was not among them. It took minutes to check that my team was safe, but John was nowhere to be seen. He was buried under the snow. One of my men, a large burly man called Charles asked me: “What do we do?”. I responded with a single word. “Dig”. For hours we dug. I was on my knees, frantically ploughing my hands through the landscape like a madman. My fingers were numb to the bone, I couldn’t feel them at all, but still I dug. After hours on searching, the terrible realisation dawned on me that by now, he would have run out of air. I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I had to keep digging. I could not have condemned my friend to such a terrible fate. I threw back my head, and howled for what seemed like forever, mourning the loss of my noble, brave friend. John.
Now, I am an old man, recording my memoirs in a book. My life of exploring is behind me. I never forgave myself for his death. I never will. I take a look at my wrinkled hands, the same I used to dig all those years ago. All I have left are my memories. Between my finger and my thumb, the squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.