Graham checked the weather report obsessively before his departure, reluctant to meet his father’s fate, unwillingly joining the death zone club. With optimistic forecasts and his sherpa’s blessing, he started his trek from base camp.

Mingma and Graham grew close over the sixteen days it took to reach the death zone. The heavy kit required added to the difficulty of the climb.

“North Side climb very dangerous, Mr. Andrews. Why not climb south side?”

“I must finish what my father started.”

Anticipation flooded Graham as he entered the final day of his ascent. He followed Mingma, head down against the blowing wind, with his oxygen mask sealing off his mouth and nose, over precarious frozen rocks until he saw a shape out of place in the snow. The body served as a reminder of the dangers ahead.

The dead had less impact the higher he ascended. Until, with the summit in sight, he spotted a familiar red jacket. Close inspection revealed “Andrews” sewn onto the breast pocket. With a hoarse whimper, Graham reached for a jar in the pocket of his coat. He removed his glove and twisted the lid with blackened fingers.

“I know I promised you the summit, Mom. But I suspect you’d rather rest in company.”

The ashes blew into the snow for a moment before creating a thin grey cloud around the surrounding rocks. Graham lay the jar down and continued towards Mingma, who was looking into the distance, concerned.

“Snowstorm!” He cried. “We must go!”