We made camp just over a thousand metres down. At least, according to the instruments, but I think Paul is the only one who believes those anymore.
Just over halfway down, he announced as he polished all their already-gleaming glass faces. Staring at their digital readouts and twitching needles with what no one will say is starting to look a lot like desperation.
The rest of us have accepted that we have no way of knowing anymore. I saw a trickle of water squeezing up a rock face like a blind worm as I rolled out my sleeping bag; the dark will tell us what it wants to.
Maybe Paul is our last true guide. But he’s starting to feel more like a canary drooping on its perch. Maybe it’s the weakest, most sensitive mind that just seems to hold on longest, unable to cope with reality. Despair can be a sign of clear thinking.
He says the ropes will still lead us back when we’re ready. We all exchanged the same look, but none of us said what it meant – either we were all already ready, too long ago, too late ago, or we won’t be until long after we’ve run out of rope and light and even Paul’s hope, and only groping hands and his sobs, at last, will tell us we’ve reached the bottom.
