I always loved that part, where the conductor conducts the rising of the sun. As though everything that happens in the universe is the result of a grand orchestra’s symphonic dexterity, led by an all-knowing conductor.

“It’s just a story, Nah,” I say.

“I hate that word,” she says with surprising vehemence.

“What?”

“Just.”

Before I can ask why, say more, we reach the blanket, where Nate is sunning himself, wearing a pair of tiny shorts and a little tank that says NEVER TRUST AN ATOM—THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING.

“Good one,” I say, nodding to the shirt.

He grins. “I bought you one, too.”

Nah plops onto the blanket and holds up her phone. “I made you an Annapolis playlist.”

The hole gets smaller. “You made a playlist?”

This is Hannah before the pills, back from the dead.

She smiles. “It was time, don’t you think?”

I nod. “What’s this one called?”

“Rocket Girl. But now it’s clear I have to make a sequel called Yuri Gagarin Is Fucking with My Serenity.”

Nate lets out a yelp. “Oh my god. We need to unpack that statement right the fuck now.”

Nah glances at me. “Maybe later.”

She hits PLAY, and Elton John’s “Rocket Man” comes out of the little speaker, and I am very impressed because all of us know the words. We sing them together, and I’m also very sad because these two people I love have no idea that right at this precise moment I’m a rocket man, rocket man burning out his fuse up here all alone. When the song finishes, Nah hits PAUSE.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“There are twelve more songs, but Nate and I have other programming for this afternoon.” She looks at my cousin. Nods.

Nate sits up and hands me a small gift bag. “I was told to pass this along to you.”

Ben.

I instinctively put my hands behind my back, but Nah reaches out and plucks it from him.

“If you don’t open it, I will,” she says.

I look at the bag. She sneaks a hand in, and I snatch it away. They stare at me, expectant.

“That gelato looks really good,” I say, giving a cart a few feet away a pointed look.

Nate bounds to his feet. “Come on, cuz,” he says to Nah. “You and I are going on a space walk.”

I wait until they’re well away before I pull out the tissue paper. Ben touched this, I think.

When I see what’s inside, I stop breathing.

Ben has gotten me a piece of the universe.

Two hundred twenty-six grams of outer space are sitting in my hand. A meteorite. It is a polished piece of gnarled rock with a little gold stand to hold it.

There is a note.