“You didn’t say you were part of Belrose Industries. Holy shit. Are you sure that’s the ID code?” Edison asked. He observed Rosalyn’s back while he sat perched on a stool in the lab and she studied Rayan’s notes.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She thumped her fist against her visor in frustration. “My father sent a message for my birthday, I didn’t listen to it until I was here, but . . . he sounded spooked, spooked that I was working with MSC, that I was salvaging at all. It’s dangerous, sure, but it was more than that. He sounded terrified.”

Edison felt his mind spinning out. He worried that the confusion would give Foxfire an easy in, a way to use his jumbled thoughts against him while he sorted out what Rosalyn was sort of telling him. “Then your dad is famous. Really, really famous.”

“Not really, just famously jumped up his own ass.”

“Still. I get what you meant now, about your company being a big deal.” She went quiet, and he noticed a pronounced tension in her shoulders. Even through the suit, he could tell she was nervous. He understood why; with the way her father had treated her, handled things, it would make anyone uncomfortable to think about their former life. She had run so far, about as far as a human could go, and all to get away from her father and that job.

“Do you know that feeling you get when you walk right by someone you know? Your eyes just . . . cancel them out. Or they blend into the surroundings. That’s how I feel right now looking at this,” she said, gesturing to the table. “Like I should know what this all means. Like I should pick out the one thing that will make this all come together and make sense.” Sighing, she put both hands on her head and swung listlessly from side to side. “If I could rub my eyes right now I would. Tuva. Piero. My dad. What if this is his fault?”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Edison asked.

Rosalyn peered over one shoulder at him, distraught.

“Let it go. Not forever, right? Just for now. You just survived a major ordeal, and as much as I want to understand how we got into this mess, it isn’t . . . it isn’t important.” Edison stood, wobbled, realizing just how much of the whiskey he had consumed. Steadying himself, he joined her at the table. “That didn’t come out right. I’m a little tipsy. Anyway. It’s important, but it’s not . . . urgent. I can see it in the way you look at us, like we’re just . . . another problem that needs a solution. Like if you just turn us the right way in the light, all will be revealed. You weren’t here when it hit, Roz. You didn’t see how hard we tried to understand it.”