Now everything is moving backward. She can see herself coming in to work this morning, then going to bed last night. She can see herself waving goodbye to Griff in the parking lot at JSC before he went into quarantine. She can see him talking to her in the pool at Steve’s house, swimming up to her. She can see him greeting her that first day at the apartment complex.

She can see the past, but it is now tinged with the excruciating inevitability of the present moment.

How has she never seen where this was headed, when it was so painfully obvious?

You absolute child, she thinks. He was hit with shrapnel from an explosion two hundred miles above Earth, and you thought he’d survive?

An abrupt and violent silence crashes into the room, and she snaps back into the moment.

She sees the blood drain out of Ray’s face. “Flight, Surgeon. John Griffin is dead.”

Joan can feel the liquid iron core of the Earth pulling her toward it, down into the depths of a hell she does not believe in.

Hank is gone. Steve is gone. Now Griff is gone, too.

He’d once told her she was a romantic, and she hadn’t believed him. How had he known her better than she’d known herself? The Joan he saw that day had been closer to who she was than the Joan she had seen in the mirror her entire life.

Vanessa’s voice comes in clear: “Houston, this is Ford. I have attempted to tighten the latches but cannot pull the doors flush. We have an approximately one-centimeter gap.”

Joan closes her eyes. She can’t understand how she’s going to get past this moment.

She squeezes the pen in her hand so hard it cracks, the sharp edge cutting into her palm.

She has her whole life to grieve. She has just a few more hours here at this console.

“Houston, come in. This is Navigator, do you read?” Vanessa says.

Pull it together, Goodwin.

Joan has never called herself Goodwin in her own head before. And now she wonders who’s speaking to her.

“Don’t tell her,” Jack says. “We have to focus on the latches.”

Joan looks at him. She knows it is Vanessa’s only chance at staying focused enough to save herself and Lydia. It’s what has to be done.

But she’s not sure she can bear to do it.

Let’s fucking go.

“Navigator, this is Houston,” she says. “We believe you should move on, given the time constraints. Assuming the rest of the latches connect down the line, we believe we have viability.”

“I disagree, Houston. I believe that I should keep trying to—”

“Navigator, move on. We do not have time.”

“Are you okay, Goodwin?” Vanessa says. “You do not sound well.”