I opened my eyes. It was still dark. Bursts of wind beat against the fly of my tent and caused a flutter. I shivered and scrunched deeper in my bag.
Mustafa works his magic in the mess tent and dinner is served. Good appetites, for the most part, pull up to the table. The exception is Wilkerson, who was already reduced to fluids before we reached High Camp. Greg now follows suit. He talks of nausea, grimaces at the sight of food, and picks at Mustafa’s offerings on his styrofoam plate.