Xiomara could make her own way, but Baqir needed help. I ducked my head under his good arm to hook it around my neck. I was careful to hold on to his waist, avoiding the damaged shoulder, but it seemed like every motion, no matter how small, caused him more pain. He no longer stifled the whimpers and gasps. I didn’t know if this would be safer for him than the evacuation suits, but I knew it would get him into a doctor’s care faster.

Xiomara settled into the pilot’s seat; she had tucked the tablet containing Mum’s message and the storage device with the ship’s data into a secure compartment. I maneuvered Baqir into the navigator’s chair behind her. He hissed when his wrecked shoulder touched the cushion.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m sorry, but I have to—it’s worse if you’re not sitting right.”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fuck. I know. You made me look at your X-rays, remember? You fucking show-off.”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing a little. “I was twelve. And you thought it was cool.”

There was no way to adjust the five-point harness so that it did not pressure his broken shoulder, no way to arrange his damaged artificial arm so that it did not pull on the wounded flesh and bones. I tightened the harness as much as I dared. Baqir clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. It would be kinder, I thought, if he passed out.

“You’re coming after us, right?” Baqir said. His eyes were still closed, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Yeah,” I said.