A young man working at a hotel resort cleans off the oversized plastic chess set that’s set up near the pool. He thinks about how he’s never seen anyone actually play chess with the set, how guests often pose with it for pictures instead, “faces frozen in faux contemplation.” He thinks about how pool duty is much better than room service duty, as “room service had been a queasy experiment in holding his breath: collecting the tiny miserable autopsies, the fatty congealed steaks and the pitchers of unused cream.” The hotel worker is a vegan and also a firm subscriber to the life advice of Wim Hof, a man who “had once run a marathon in Namibia without drinking any water” and who “had set a world record for the longest swim under ice.” The hotel worker takes cold showers because of Wim Hoff, practices “a special breathing technique: a cycle of forty quick breaths then holding in one big breath until your head went swimmy.” He doesn't vape anymore or drink beers in the evening. “His body felt compact and close to the bone.”

The hotel worker continues to fulfill his poolside duties: restocking the mini-fridge, walking around offering guests glasses of ice water. A young couple comes up and orders drinks, and the hotel worker tries to guess what their situation is. Were they from LA? Were they on a “babymoon”? They order food, and when it’s ready, the hotel worker takes it over to them. They eat it on the spot. The hotel worker’s coworker thinks the guy is a minor celebrity, and this causes the hotel worker to be nicer to the couple, even though celebrities come to the resort often. The couple gets high discreetly and then starts acting out. They can’t stop laughing, and the hotel worker keeps an eye out for them. “He was watching out for them—they needed it.” He thinks about how Wim Hof doesn’t need to do drugs because “he could release DMT from his brain at will.” He thinks about Wim Hof’s nickname: The Iceman. He offers the couple some ice waters and they take them, eagerly. Later, the guy is flailing on the floor and “[o]ne of the girl’s nipples was visible over the top of her swimsuit—she did not care.” Some of the other guests look displeased, so the hotel worker is asked to escort them to their room. After some corralling, he gets them there. He wonders: “What would Wim Hof make of these people? These soft city people with their weekday psychedelics and the quart of coconut cream and rum settling in their stomaches, their pale skin cooked to scarlet? Everything they did was about being comfortable, grabbing more pleasure. They could use a bracing, ice-cold shower. A few moments of self-discipline, self-denial.” In the room, the girl invites both her boyfriend and the hotel worker into bed with her. The hotel worker considers it. A threesome seems very possible. He’s tempted, but then he remembers Wim Hof. “Wim Hof could control his heart rate. Wim Hof ate one meal a day.” He decides to leave, and as he does, the girl’s boyfriend says, “Thanks a lot, man. You were great.” When he’s back at his station, he thinks he “should have gone over to the bed. Seen what would happen. Maybe nothing. But maybe something. And who would ever give him a medal for refusing? Tell him he had done the right thing?” He wonders what the point is of following Wim Hof’s example of extreme self-control.