He looked down, his mouth drawn in a thin line. “I’m talking about Tierra Nueva. I’m talking about people like my parents, slaving away day in and day out in a factory for the rich a-holes on Earth. My parents break their backs to line the pockets of someone who will never know them, but has no problem dictating their lives from a hundred million kilometers away. They have no voice, and if we let GSAF keep on the way they have been, they never will. We never will. Sure, maybe things aren’t too bad right now. But you know the funny thing about power? Once someone has a little, they always want more. So if we don’t raise our voices now, we might not have a chance later.”

He glared at me. “And if you ask me? That’s the real reason your dad left. Maybe that coin just proved it to him.”

I barely noticed Henry’s figure flicker and disappear as he signed off chat. I just stood there, fists clenched, shaking with anger. I’d always known Henry was a radical, but he’d crossed the line. He had no right to say those things about my mom, or about me. My mom had worked her butt off to get this job with GSAF. Space travel had been her dream growing up. Henry had no right to disparage her for taking a job that would give her that dream, and help millions of people in the process.

And Abuelo! Did Henry think he’d had it easy, coming to the United States when he was only five years old? Having to fight for citizenship? He’d told me time and again that deciphering the Cascajal Block had been pan comido compared to dealing with the US immigration board. My family had worked just as hard to get where they were as Henry’s parents had. And we certainly hadn’t taken handouts from anyone, regardless of what Henry seemed to think.

I wasn’t trying to make excuses for GSAF—how could I, after this morning?—but what did he want me to do? Lead a damn revolution?

I didn’t want to deal with any of this. I just wanted my life to go back to normal.

I pulled my headset off and flung it onto my bed with as much strength as I could muster. I stared at it, laying sideways on my crumpled covers, for a full minute. Then I turned to my nightstand and yanked open the drawer, where I’d hidden the coin after the incident at the train station.

But the coin wasn’t there. In its place was a piece of yellowed paper. It looked like a page that had been ripped from an old book. Across the faded print of the original text, a message was scrawled in black marker. My blood ran cold as I read the messy handwriting.