My primary directive is to tend to the well-being of the crew, and I have confidence that it is safer for you in here.

“Ask Father to come get me.”

Yes, Konstance.

“Tell him I’d like to see him right now.” The cot, the oxygen hood, the food sacks. Dread ticks through her. “Sybil, how many meals can a person print with thirteen sacks of Nourish powder?”

Assuming average caloric output, a Reconstituter could produce 6,526 fully nutritional meals. Are you hungry after your long rest? Would you like me to help you prepare a nutritious meal?

Father poring over technical drawings in the Library. The sewing stool screaming against the pressure of the outer door. One of us is not feeling well. Jessi Ko said the only way to get out of your compartment was to tell Sybil that you weren’t feeling well. If Sybil detected something wrong with you, she’d send Dr. Cha and Engineer Goldberg to escort you to the Infirmary.

Father was not well. When he announced it, Sybil opened the door to Compartment 17 so he could be brought to wherever they were isolating sick crew members, but first he brought Konstance to Sybil’s vault. With enough supplies to last her six and a half thousand meals.

Hands shaking, she touches the Vizer on the back of her head and the Perambulator on the floor whirs to life.

Off to the Library? asks Sybil. Of course, Konstance. You can eat afterw—

No one at the tables, no one on the ladders. No books fly through the air. Not a single person in sight. Above the aperture in the barrel vault, the sky radiates a pleasant blue. Konstance calls, “Hello?” and from beneath a desk trots Mrs. Flowers’s dog, eyes shining, tail high.

No teachers leading classes. No teenagers sliding up and down the ladders to the Games Section.

“Sybil, where is everybody?”

Everyone is elsewhere, Konstance.

The numberless books wait in their places. The spotless rectangles of paper and pencils sit in their boxes. Days ago, at one of these tables, Mother read aloud: The hardiest viruses can persist for months on surfaces: tabletops, door handles, lavatory fixtures.

A cold weight drops through her. She takes a slip of paper, writes, How many years would it take a person to eat 6,526 meals?

The answer floats down: 5.9598

Six years?

“Sybil, please ask Father to meet me in the Library.”

Yes, Konstance.

She sits on the marble floor and the little dog climbs into her lap. His fur feels real. The little pink pads on the bottom of his feet feel warm. High above her, a solitary silver cloud, like a child’s drawing, crosses the sky.

“What did he say?”

He has not yet replied.

“What time is it?”

Six minutes past DayLight thirteen, Konstance.

“Is everyone at Third Meal?”