She dug in the box. Toaster, pressure cooker, microwave… the heater was the biggest, in the bottom corner.

“Little Bee,” her father said. “Could you hand me the box knife?”

She looked up from her efforts to empty the box. Her father was by the entrance, in the air lock, and the box knife was in his arm’s reach. He was wearing a suit, but the jacket had been taken off, the sleeves rolled up. No wonder he’d wanted the space heater. He was Japan-born, with very broad shoulders and a broad jaw, a thin mustache and a goatee like an arrow that pointed down from his lower lip to his chin, his hair slicked back with two parts hair stuff, one part sweat.

She looked over at her mother, who gave her a pleading look, both hands pressed together.

She could imagine how that exchange would go, if her dad wasn’t in earshot, or if she stepped away to have a conversation with her dad. ‘Don’t agitate him, this is all hard enough.’

She got up from where she was kneeling, adjusted her coat, and walked over to her dad, picking up the box cutter and holding it out with what felt like a whole lot of irony.

“Can you hold this?” he asked, taking the box knife, and then handing her screws.

“I don’t have long.”

“Thirty seconds,” he said.

She held the screws, drawing in a deep breath and sighing.

It took more than thirty seconds.

“Have you gotten the space heater out yet?” he asked, as he took the screws.

“No, Dad.”

“We need that done. Can you help me lift this, and then get right to it?”

She glanced again at her mother.

“Ren,” her mother said. “Our daughter is supposed to be taking a break right now. She was just fighting, she’ll be fighting again tonight.”

“I’m not asking for much. If you’d just—” he said.

She squared her feet, drew in a deep breath, and then tinted her vision, tapping into that other set of senses that let her see the world through her power.

Mass was an indent in the world, however slight, and that indent saw things drawn toward the mass, even if by insignificant fractions. The world itself, the big magnificent globe they all lived in, produced an indent so steep that they were all pulled directly into it.

With her power, she adjusted tolerances and tensions. Made indents less, made them more.

An increased tension in the fabric at the front and center of the tent served to make everything lighter. Her father stood easily, and picked up a heavy box with just as much ease.

It was easier to expand the ‘donut’ of increased tension than to cancel it and start it again. Moving from where she stood or being interrupted saw everything snap back to normal. A snap back to normal could be disastrous, if her father was holding something fragile.