“Looks like a couple of solid rocket boosters, uh, blew away from the side of the shuttle in an explosion,” said the CNN correspondent.

A fireball in the sky, with pieces of debris clouded by multiple smoke trails rocketing out from all sides, was all that was left to be seen of the space shuttle. A solid gray mass detached from the side. The astronauts’ pod? It whirled away. Gone.

There were no other signs of the Challenger on the screen. It had broken up into a cloud of smoke.

The camera swung away.

“Obviously a major malfunction,” said the NASA announcer.

On the ground, the crowd gasped.

In the classroom, the students gasped.

The television cut to the faces of Christa McAuliffe’s parents, then to the schoolchildren behind them. Kids like them. They didn’t seem sad yet. They seemed confused.

Nova couldn’t breathe. How could anybody?

“About forty-five seconds ago, a huge fireball in the sky…,” said the voice on TV.

Like shooting stars, streaks of smoke rained down from the shuttle toward the earth, bright white against a denim-blue sky. Nova could almost see the cloud of smoke above her head. She could almost smell ash descending from the atmosphere. She could almost feel the crisp air against her arms. She shivered in her ONE SMALL STEP shirt. It was as if she was there in Florida on the bleachers, staring in shock at the devastation in the sky, instead of sitting safely in her classroom watching it on CNN.

“We have the report from the flight dynamics officer that the vehicle has exploded,” said the voice on the television. “We are checking with the recovery forces to see what can be done at this point.”

“Ah dun,” whispered Nova.

“Nova?” Miss Chambers placed a gentle hand on Nova’s arm, but Nova pulled away. “Nova, honey, did you say something?”

Nova shook her head. She had nothing to say. Nothing could be done. Nothing was left. Nothing was left to hope for.

Oh, Bridget.

You and me and NASA Bear, our space shuttle, and the moon.

“No word yet on if there are any survivors,” said the other announcer. Nova clenched her fists.

“Do you think it’s possible?” whispered Class Clown Jeremiah. “Do you think it’s possible they’re alive?”

Mr. O’Reilly was shaking his head. “I’m…I’m so sorry, kids.” His voice was quaking. “I’m sure there were no survivors. I’m so sorry.”

Of course there were no survivors, thought Nova. Challenger was destroyed.

Two minutes postexplosion.

Two minutes, thirty.

Two forty-five.

“Point of impact in the water,” said the voice on the television.

Nova shook her head one-two-three-four times, trying to stop the movie screen in her mind from replaying the explosion over and over and over again, but it didn’t work.

“Maybe they escaped?” suggested Julia. “Maybe they had parachutes?”

Mr. O’Reilly shook his head.