Not all exiles are unwelcomed
Antarctica’s white. And cold. And absolutely desolate, which seems only fitting: John feels a little like he’s been frozen, locked away behind ice, able only to watch as people died.
Flight is one redeeming thing about the place, even if it isn’t the untamed soaring he’d known in the desert. Here he flies between two points, bounded, hemmed in—alone. But he doesn’t mind that: it means there isn’t anyone left for him to fail.
Sometimes he misses the smell of sand, but there are still winds and empty spaces, and he’s beginning to feel like he isn’t about to break.