Thora ponders it, her furrowed brow making her look older than she is. “I think we should go through the debris field.” Her finger hovers over the button. Santi feels her indecision like a vibration in the air. “If it goes wrong, we can always just play again,” she says with a nervous laugh.

“That seems like cheating to me,” Santi says. “I think we should make a choice and stick to it.”

Thora looks up at him, appalled. “But what if we make the wrong choice?”

“There’s no wrong choice,” Santi says. “There’s just what happens.”

“Bet you won’t say that if we die,” she mutters, and presses the appropriate button. The ship blurts forward, then the screen goes dark.

Santi taps the screen, thumps the console. Nothing happens. Thora kneels down and jiggles the cable. “I think it’s broken.” Standing up, she looks for the man in the blue coat. “Hello? Mr.—museum person?” But when they go back into the corridor, he is nowhere to be found.

Santi checks his watch. “Come on. We’re out of time.”

On the last day of the school year, Thora comes to see him in his classroom. Her parents are transferring her to a school with an intensive humanities program. Santi tried to argue them out of it, throwing himself against the machinery of the world, but they were immovable. He has given up, gracefully, accepting that his time in Thora’s life is done.

She slides a card across his desk. “I got this for you.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t open it; he doesn’t trust himself not to get emotional, and that doesn’t fit with who Thora needs him to be.

“I don’t want to go to a new school,” she says.

Santi experiences one of those rare moments he can count on the fingers of one hand, of seeing her as the person she will one day be: tall, awkward, angry but focused, capable of anything. “You’ll be fine.” He gives her what she deserves: an undoubting smile. “You’re going to make an amazing astronaut one day.”

She twists her hands together. “I don’t think I want to be one anymore.”

He feels it like a blow to the heart. “Oh?”

“I want to be a teacher like you.”

She will not chase the dream he gave up, and it’s his fault. God’s hand has made him the instrument of his own failure. This should teach me, he thinks, but he’s not sure what.

“Bye,” Thora says in a strangled voice, and flees.

He opens the card. He expects one last drawing, but there are only words.

Mr. Wolf,

Thank you for being my favorite teacher.

I hope I see you again.

Love,

Thora