December 29, 1984

First Griff’s voice gone.

Then Hank’s.

Then Steve’s.

Now Lydia’s.

“Ford, we read you,” Joan says.

Joan is now all Vanessa can hear, all that lies between her and isolation.

With the hand that’s not pressed to Griff’s suit, Vanessa bangs on the side of the airlock, trying to get someone’s attention and wake them up. The force of it pushes her backward. She rights herself.

“LYDIA!” she screams. “STEVE! HANK! SOMEONE!”

The ghostly quiet of the shuttle overwhelms her. Suddenly she becomes aware of her body floating in microgravity. The slowness, the absence of both feet on the ground. She has never felt the full scope and terror of floating the way she does in this moment, tethered to nothing, unable to move.

“Ford, the cabin pressure has returned to safe levels and the airlock is fully pressurized. We want you to bring Griff out of the airlock.”

Vanessa closes her eyes. This is another thing she learned as a child. That the world beyond the edges of her eyelids can and will be a dangerous place. But that she can hide from it for whole seconds at a time when she closes her eyes. So she stays there, and breathes. In once, out once.

When she opens her eyes again, she is surprised by the steadiness of her voice. “Copy that, Houston. Preparing to enter the cabin.”

She takes her hand off Griff’s stomach; it’s no longer needed to protect him from the lack of pressure. And then she starts to open the hatch.

Once it’s open, she begins to swim out of the hatch to the mid-deck with Griff in tow. She takes off both of their helmets.

She can work her way out of the pants of the space suit. But it is hard to maneuver the torso piece without assistance. The suits are designed for crew members to assist each other when getting in and out.

Vanessa begins to panic, claustrophobia setting in. She thrashes against the suit, which only makes it worse. She cannot lose control of herself right now. She counts her breaths and then she moves her shoulder in a way that feels unnatural, as if her collarbone might snap.

But then she stops.

Because there, floating toward her, is Hank. His entire body is swollen. His face is mottled, his skin covered in a rash so severe that for a moment, she thinks it is blood. But she realizes the blood is under his skin. She wants to ask him if he’s okay.

But there’s no doubt.

Hank is dead.