I always try to tell Anna that it’s not the cold that gets you — it’s the wind. “But forty-six below?” she says, “You’re insane!” Of course, she laughs when she says it, and even over the static of the hallway phone, over the unimaginable miles, I could see her, eyes dancing. Her eyes say what they always say when she laughs.

She said she was meeting her girlfriends in the morning for coffee; she’s probably there now, bragging…