“Ha,” Liam responded. He closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic bouncing of the basketball as the boys continued to play. It was nice on the slide. He let his arms flop over the sides, trailing his fingers over the protective rubber mats that lined the playground area. Dried leaves had accumulated beneath the slide. He swished his hands through them, breathing in deeply through his nostrils.

His fingertips met with something hard, a large plastic bottle. He clasped the neck of the bottle and held it up. It was an oversize bottle of vodka, with about four inches of clear liquid left in the bottom.

“Holy shit!” Liam murmured.

Within seconds the other three boys were standing over him.

“We should drink it,” Ryan said.

“No way. It might have diseases,” Black Ryan said.

Bruce pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on. The flame glimmered in the dark and then went out. He flicked it again. “Get up, loser.”

Liam sat up and Bruce yanked the vodka bottle out of his hand. He went around to the short metal ladder that led to the top of the slide.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Bruce said. “Get your phones ready to video this shit.” He climbed to the top of the ladder and shook up the bottle. “This stuff is crap. We’re definitely not going to drink it. We’re going to set it on fire.”

Wendy was working late, so Shy made cheesy pasta and pretended to do her math homework in the kitchen while her dad was in the library, attempting to write.

Roy stared at his laptop. Ceran was messaging his dad about what he would do when he got back to Earth. He wanted to go to the beach and order a pepperoni pizza and play with all the puppies he’d adopted—there were no pets on Mars, only robots, something Roy had stolen directly from Battlestar Galactica. Ceran was a bit mushy. If Roy was about to lose his virginity to Bettina, in space, he wouldn’t be thinking about puppies.

“Do you want to watch a film with your old dad?” he called out to Shy. “It’s a retro teenager film. Someone told me I should take a look at it.”

“What’s it called?” Shy shouted back.

Roy checked his notes. “The Blue Lagoon?”

“Hope it’s not about mermaids,” Shy responded skeptically. “But I’ll try it.” Anything to spare her the pain of math. Not that she was doing math. She was checking Mr. Streko’s Twitter feed—again. It was addictive. Every Latin quote he posted had so much emotional logic. Mostly, though, she waited for him to post more bare-chested photos of him, his tattoos, and his cat.