Santi shivers, thinking of the close metal walls surrounding his real body. “Maybe it’s important for us to accept the reality of this place. I guess that’s why they put copies of our loved ones in here. Héloïse. Jaime. Lily.”

“Jules.” Thora toys with her glass, a strange tenderness on her face. “I want to see her. I mean, the real her.”

“Maybe you will,” he says. “When we get back.”

She looks at him as if she’s afraid to hope. “Ten years out, ten years back, plus however long we’re going to spend on the planet? Not to mention five years’ unscheduled delay? No one would wait that long.”

“You don’t know that.”

Thora takes a morose swallow of wine. “No wonder she kept breaking up with me. I’d break up with me. Can you imagine? Hey babe, I signed up for a twenty-plus-year mission across the far reaches of space, no hard feelings, see you when I get back!”

Santi smiles sadly, thinking of Héloïse, of the look in her eyes he has seen again and again: anxious, expectant, waiting for the moment he would leave. “We may know them, but we only know them from one side,” he reminds her. “You think Jules would want you to stay, so that’s how you imagine her. But the real Jules might not want what you think she does.” He taps Thora’s hand. “Think about it. Everything here was by design. They must have agreed to the use of their likenesses, their personalities. It means Jules wanted to send part of herself with you.”

Thora gives him a pained smile. Santi tries to imagine it: coming back to Earth, stepping out into the eyes of the waiting crowd. “On the video,” he says. “How old did we look?”

“I don’t know. Late thirties? Hard to tell when we’re half-starved.” Thora gnaws on her nail. “It’s so weird to think about being one age. At this point, I feel like every age I’ve ever been.” Watching him, her face changes. “You’re thinking about your parents.”

He nods.

“They’ll be fine,” she says. “Healthy Mediterranean lifestyle, all that olive oil. Mine, on the other hand . . .” She throws her wine back in illustration. “I suppose they might have pickled themselves,” she mutters.

Santi knows it’s her way of coping, but he can’t smile. He imagines the version of himself that left his mother and father, knowing he would likely never see them again. The real version. He wishes he could say it feels impossible. A sudden pain pulses between his eyes. He presses on his temples, inhaling until it passes.

“Shit,” Thora says. “It’s worse than that.”

Santi tries to focus on her. “What do you mean?”