Leo’s father came back and put one hand on the ladder, looking back at the stricken cherry tree again.

“It will be okay. We can try and plant another one. Or we can plant something new.”

Except Leo didn’t want something new—he wanted exactly what he’d had before, but he didn’t say it. Just nodded along.

Two hours later the landscapers came with their chain saws and ropes.

The life-giving star peeked over the horizon, casting a burnt-orange veil over the sky and seeping through the windscreen to creep across Leo’s cold cheeks. He squinted into the light and rubbed his temples. Somehow he’d managed to drift back to sleep again, even with the cramping in his stomach, the throbbing behind his eyes. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, leaning on the captain’s bony shoulder—so much less comfortable than a Queleti’s fuzzy arm.

He’d dreamed of food this time. Fresh, chin-glistening peaches and spicy chicken wings and baked cinnamon apples crusted with brown sugar. All you could eat. He was sitting in the grass at the top of the hill by his old house gorging himself when Baz woke him and told him it was time to go.

The captain was clearly on edge. Leo could tell by the drumming; Baz’s fingers danced on any hard surface they could find as he moved around the control room, fingers that would have been happier squeezing a trigger or punching the controls of his ship, nervous energy needing an outlet. Leo hadn’t known Bastian Black before hiding away on his ship, but even in the short time they’d spent together, he had seen a shift in the pirate. Baz had lost some of his cocky, carefree demeanor. Now Leo could see the worry mustered in rows across the man’s forehead. He probably hadn’t gotten any more sleep judging by the shadows under his eyes.

“Come on, Okardo. Up and at ’em. The worms are back in their holes and we’ve got patches to make to the Icarus before we can safely make a jump.”

“A jump to where, exactly?” Kat asked, strapping her holster back around her waist and slinging her rifle—Zennia’s rifle—over her shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out on the way,” Baz said shortly. “But there’s clearly no point in sticking around here.”

The captain vibrated with a sense of urgency. It was different when you’re at the top of the list. Baz pretended that he didn’t care about anything except his crew and the next stack of pentars they could steal or swindle, but the trunk under his bunk—filled with trinkets and collectibles, baseballs and Pokémon cards, magazines and memories—suggested otherwise. There were some things you couldn’t help but hold on to.

Baz marched down the corridor and Leo followed with the rest, entering the hangar where Skits and Nine were still parked close together, metal pressed to metal. When Baz walked in, Nine’s spindly legs contracted closer to its body and one of Skits’s appendages retreated into her torso.

“What? We weren’t doing anything, I promise,” she said. “Just . . . interfacing.”