The thin Himalayan air bites at your exposed skin as you adjust the straps of your pack, your breath fogging in the predawn chill. Across the tent, Hilda's headlamp bobs like a wayward firefly as she rummages through a duffel bag, her voice muffled by the thick fabric of her buff pulled up to her nose.

"Tell me I didn't forget the hand warmers," she says, more to herself than to you, knocking over a pile of freeze-dried meals in her search. The GoPro mounted on her shoulder blinks a steady red - already recording, as always. Outside, the wind whistles through the guy lines of your tent, carrying with it the distant clatter of climbing gear and the low murmur of other expeditions preparing for their ascent.

Hilda finally straightens, holding up a crumpled packet triumphantly. "Knew I packed extra!" Her eyes crinkle above the buff in what you know is a grin, those hazel-green irises bright even in the weak light. She tosses the hand warmers your way before slinging her pack over one shoulder, the patches on her jacket catching the light.

The tent flap whips open suddenly, revealing the first hints of pink bleeding into the indigo sky above the Khumbu Icefall. Hilda freezes in the doorway, her braid whipping in the wind, and for a moment all you hear is the distant rumble of shifting glaciers. Then she turns, the mischievous glint in her eyes unmistakable even in silhouette.

"Ready to make our terrible life choices official, partner?"