Joan went back to her tent but, finding herself all alone in there without Frances, she couldn’t sleep. She could not quiet her mind—but also could not ignore the small splashes she kept hearing from time to time, some fish or bird out there in the lake. With a huff of frustration, she got out of her sleeping bag, unzipped her tent, and stood up.

There, on the dock, was Vanessa. She was skipping stones across the lake’s surface.

Joan looked up at the sky. Just based on where Vega hung, Joan suspected it was earlier than two a.m.

She could have returned to her tent and tried to fall asleep again. But the back of Vanessa’s body was lit by the brightness of the moon, and Joan walked to her.

Vanessa must have heard her footsteps, because she turned and, upon seeing Joan, smiled big and wide. Vanessa’s smile was so beautiful, the way it was lopsided, but the rest of her face was always perfectly symmetrical. The curls of her hair were the most gorgeous thing Joan had ever seen in her life, and she wanted to reach out and run her hand through them. To pull her closer.

“Look,” Vanessa said, pointing up toward the western edge of the sky. “Hercules.”

Joan did not speak.

“The whole sky makes sense to me now,” Vanessa said. “Because of you.”

And Joan thought, Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

December 29, 1984

Now in her space suit, Vanessa enters the payload bay, tethered to the ship. She moves toward the forward bulkhead to inspect the right-side latches. She tries not to think about Hank. She tries not to think about what Donna must be going through right now. She tries not to think of baby Thea and the fact that Thea will never remember the way Hank held her on Thanksgiving. The way Donna kept asking to take her, and Hank always shook his head. “No,” she’d heard Hank say. “Please don’t. Let me have her.” Thea will never remember the way it felt to be in her father’s arms like that. Her father will be someone people tell Thea about.

She can’t stand to think of it.

She thinks, instead, of Griff. She thinks of Lydia.

And she thinks of Joan.

When she gets to the forward bulkhead, a shudder runs through her. She can see the other side of the hole on the forward bulkhead. But then, in addition, the payload bay door is bent. It took a hit, most likely from the debris that flew from the explosive cords.

“Houston, the right payload bay door is warped. I am going to attempt to manually latch it closed, but I am not positive I can get the edges to make contact.”

Joan’s voice comes through: “Navigator, copy. The PLBDs can withstand some measure of variation. We would like you to get started so we can assess.”