I hear steps cracking the snow and look up to the rim of the crevasse. The light is dimming by the second, but I make out the tall, broad outline of a man in a ski mask. He is looking down at me.

Oh God. Is he really . . . ?

“See?” Ian’s deep voice says, just a little out of breath. He lowers his neck warmer before adding, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Six

Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas

Six months ago

I am surprised by how much the email hurts, because it’s a lot.

Not that I expected to be happy about it. It’s a well-established fact that hearing that your project has been denied funding is as pleasant as plunging a toilet. But rejections are the bread and butter of all academic journeys, and since starting my Ph.D. I’ve had approximately twelve hundred fantabillions of them. In the past five years, I’ve been denied publications, conference presentations, fellowships, scholarships, memberships. I even failed at getting into Bruegger’s unlimited-drinks program—a devastating setback, considering my love for iced tea.

The good thing is, the more rejections you get, the easier they are to swallow. What had me punching pillows and plotting murder in the first year of my Ph.D. barely fazed me in the last. Progress in Aerospace Sciences saying that my dissertation wasn’t worthy of gracing their pages? Fine. National Science Foundation declining to sponsor my postdoctoral studies? Okay. Mara insisting that the Rice Krispies Treats I made for her birthday tasted like toilet paper? Eh. I’ll live.

This specific rejection, though, cuts deep. Because I really, really need the grant money for what I’m planning to do.

Most of NASA funding is tied to specific projects, but every year there is a discretionary pot that’s up for grabs, usually for junior scientists who come up with research ideas that seem worth exploring. And mine, I think, is pretty worthy. I’ve been at NASA for over six months. I spent nearly all of them in Norway, at the best Mars analogue on Earth, knee-deep in intense fieldwork, equipment testing, sampling exercises. For the past couple of weeks, ever since returning to Houston, I’ve taken my place with the A & PE team, and it’s been really, really cool. Ian was right: best team ever.

But. Every break. Every free second. Every weekend. Every scrap of time I could find, I focused on finalizing the proposal for my project, believing that it was a fucking great idea. And now that proposal has been rejected. Which feels like being stabbed with a santoku knife.

“Did something happen?” Karl, my office mate, asks from across the desk. “You look like you’re about to cry. Or maybe throw something out the window, I can’t tell.”

I don’t bother to glance at him. “Haven’t made up my mind, but I’ll keep you updated.” I stare at the monitor of my computer, skimming the feedback letters from the internal reviewers.