“I know,” he says. But the truth is, he hasn’t told them the half of it. How after almost thirty years, he’s still sometimes so homesick he can’t breathe. How the daily texture of life here, among these cold, hurried strangers, is alien in a way that keeps him constantly on edge. He switches the phone to his left hand, fumbles with the keys to his apartment building. “I’m just—I’m not ready to leave yet.”

It’s not quite true. But what is true, he doesn’t know how to tell her: that going home feels like the wrong direction.

Aurelia sighs. “I know what your problem is. You don’t want to live on this planet.”

He laughs as he climbs the stairs. “You know me so well.”

“Look, I have to go. But think about the job, okay?”

He promises her and hangs up, unlocking his door and switching on the lights. He waters the twisted, overgrown shrub Héloïse left behind—her abortive attempt at a bonsai tree—and sits down heavily on the sofa. He’s tired, but in an enervated way that doesn’t let him rest. Félicette stalks across the floor, disappears into the kitchen, then reappears suddenly by his shoulder. He strokes her chin, pours himself another beer, and starts marking the students’ essays. When he gets to Thora’s, he saves it at the bottom of the pile for a treat.

Finally, he’s through the rest of the stack. He clears them aside and leans over Thora’s. She’s drawn the tiny planet he made for her, with her own additions: purple lakes, outlandish trees, aliens with eyes in their toes. Her imagination has overflowed to the point where he can barely tell what’s happening. He squints at a figure sticking out from the side of the planet.

“Dr. Lišková, I presume,” he murmurs.

Seen through her own eyes, Thora is gangly and awkward, sticks of hair spilling out of her space helmet. In her hand, she triumphantly clutches a bottle of some red substance. Santi consults the text to find it’s a “sample.” She’s a good writer for her age, if a little prone to using long words without fully understanding what they mean.

He’s starting to write his comment when he spots himself. A tiny figure on the planet’s opposite side, barely more than a crayon smudge. He wouldn’t have recognized himself if she hadn’t labeled him, in lettering twice the size of his diminutive shape.

“That better not be a comment on my height,” he mutters, taking a swig of his beer.

Good work, he writes. Thanks for inviting me along.