“Let me get you something to eat. And water,” Sarah says. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Disengages, and the dead astronaut tries not to hang on, to retain some sense of self. Not to cling to each footfall leading away from there. Must trust.

Waits there as the water teases and gasps through the rocks. As some lonely bird drifts off the coast, joined by a second. As the wind against her face intensifies.

Oh, my love, what will I do without you?

Everything and nothing.

Yet there is still so much of Moss here, in the tidal pools, so much of Moss in Sarah. All the strange life there. The ache of that, and yet, pushing it away, the thought that perhaps if put out of sight, out of mind, some new thing might grow.

Somewhere there might be a Grayson who perished in the desert, without hope. Somewhere there might be a Grayson who never found even a Sarah. Somewhere there might be a Grayson who suffered less, who held on to more.

But she was the dead astronaut and she lay merciful somewhere between those points on the compass and always would.

Grayson come to rest, unable to move after so long in motion. Shuddering with the aftershock of Sarah’s embrace. Which, even unawares, could convey so much and withhold nothing. The joy of life. The joy of living without interference. Without persecution. Without unnatural threat. Without. If she was allowed to think of joy.

History would go on without her, the Company and the foxes, and all the rest. And yet on it went. Their quest, in some form. Even without them. The future would still be the future, in some form. Until the dead astronaut grew old. Or until the end of the world. Whichever came first.

Grayson lay back against the wet sand, staring up at the cloudless sky. There, by the edge of the sea.

Chen stood in the surf, looking out at the waves. She could see him with her bad eye. Had always been able to see him. Her hand in her pocket, wrapped around the scrap of paper Chen had left behind. Should she give it back to him? Should she read it? Or just hold it, tight, in her grip? The words long since faded into nothing. The compacted feel of the paper. The dry rough feel across thousands and thousands of miles.

We will always be there. Even before we know you.

Even after we’ve known you. Even then.

And, finally, she was free.

0. A Scrap of Paper Found in Chen’s Suit