She turns the gearbox, pulling it as tight as she can. The four latches close. The firm connection of the latches feels good in her hand.

“Navigator, we see the first gang of four is done. Thank you.”

Vanessa looks up. The bend in the door is preventing the doors from making total contact. She puts the ratchet wrench back on the gearbox and tries to turn it farther, pulling the door in as much as possible.

If the gap between the doors is sizable enough, the shuttle will burn up upon reentry into the atmosphere. Vanessa will never see Joan again.

She tries to release her jaw and focuses on her breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. She knows if she repeats the same pattern of breath, she can occupy her mind enough to stop her from thinking about the rest of it.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

She continues turning.

It is dark inside the payload bay, and there is still much to be done.

Joan is not going to say it out loud. No one is. But if the forward bulkhead latches cannot pull the door flat, things are going to take a turn.

Ray stands up. “Flight, Surgeon. I’m concerned about Griff’s heart rate.”

This is the fourth time Ray has noted this, but now his tone is calmer and less animated, which has an inverse effect. Joan turns to him. She can tell from his pale face and wide eyes that he’s exerting a lot of effort to control himself.

Jack: “What are we at?”

“Twenty-one bpm and it is growing more irregular.”

“How irregular?”

Ray checks the instruments again and swallows.

As Ray begins to speak—his face somber—it is as if someone has turned down the volume of Joan’s world. Every word exchanged between Ray and Jack feels muted—muffled and unreal. She can see Ray frown. She can see Jack slam his hand down on the top of his console.

But she cannot make out a single word.

Later, she will realize that she actually did hear all of this. That she stored it away to process when she could face it. It will come back to her in flashes much later.

“His temperature has fallen.” “We’ve lost heart-rate signals.” “Do not tell Ford.” “Even if she got to him in the next thirty seconds, I don’t believe—”

But right now, it is as if Joan has left her body. Her view is from ten feet up in the air.

She can see herself in her chair. Her hair falling out of her ponytail, her eyes bloodshot.