She wants to throw the fucking wrench across the payload bay and take off her helmet and wail. But she needs that tool to get home, if she so much as unlocks her helmet she will die within seconds, and even if she could scream, no one would hear her up here. The sound won’t go anywhere.

“None of these four will close! If I move on, it means I have to secure all the rest, which appear, from here, to be busted. Are you sure I should move on to the last four?”

“Given the time constraints, we believe it is best.”

“Roger that, Houston,” Vanessa says. She closes her eyes and exhales.

She moves to the last group of four, down by the aft bulkhead.

But she’s right. Not only has the door warped in this spot, too, but the torque shaft is damaged.

She fits the ratchet wrench onto the gearbox, but it won’t turn the latches. She grabs the three-point latch tool and tries to secure each latch individually, but none of them will zip closed. She breathes in and focuses on the first latch of the four. She back-drives the three-point latch tool into the active latch and tries to turn it.

Finally, it turns one millimeter toward her. Her whole body lights up. She pulls harder and harder. Her arm is killing her. Her back aches. She has to keep going.

It turns another millimeter. And then, just as it seems like she might get the latch to catch, the torque shaft cracks further. She closes her eyes.

She just needs the payload bay doors to stay closed upon reentry. Is that so fucking much to ask?

Donna once told her that if one of them had to die, between her and Hank, she hoped it would be her. Vanessa didn’t believe her, but Donna insisted. “And it’s not for some stupid-ass reason like I can’t live without him,” Donna said. “I can. I did for thirty years before I met the son of a bitch. It’s because he’s the better parent. He loves our baby more. I know you can’t compare love, but I love her so much and he loves her even more, Vanessa.”

Vanessa doesn’t want to think about Donna anymore. But she does want to get Hank’s body home, because every time she went to her father’s gravestone, she knew her father’s body wasn’t really there. And it always mattered to her.

She tries to pull the second latch closed enough to apply the latch tool, but it won’t move.

She slams her glove against her helmet. Again. And again. And again.

“Houston, I don’t know what to do.”

“Navigator,” Joan says. “We are waiting to see if you are able to get the last four latches closed.”

“And if I can’t? What’s the contingency?”