Holt didn’t answer; he just stood there staring at her, kneading the skin around his eyes. After another moment, Park held up the plastic helmet of the MAD and helped Holt with its dangling straps and buckles and sticky microsuction cups. She averted her gaze as the MAD began beaming its euphoric green light into Holt’s brain, slackening his body until he was slumped in his seat. His mouth hung open slightly. In Park’s opinion, there was something disturbingly private about using the MAD—as if she were witnessing someone reach orgasm. She turned away to set a timer on her inlays. Two minutes was usually sufficient.

Then Holt gave a low groan. Park looked at him sharply—he should have been comatose with bliss—but instead he was plucking at the cables hooked to his helmet.

“It’s not working,” he said. He sounded close to tears. “Something’s wrong.”

This had never happened before. Park checked the helmet for malfunction, but the MAD was working fine. She angled it toward her face and felt the gamma rays bathing her brain in a warm cerebral massage. “It seems fine,” she said, trying to sound confident.

“I can’t get it out of my head,” Holt said.

Goddamn it, Keller, where are you? Park let the MAD rest on Holt’s skull again, though when he peered at her from behind the plastic visor, she could see that his expression was still one of distress—almost terror. His features were washed in eerie green light.

“Why don’t you tell me what you dreamt?” Park said, hoping that enough distraction would give him time to calm down.

Holt shook his head, then shuddered. “I don’t know. I was sleeping, and then when I woke up—I couldn’t move. There were all these lights flashing in my face. I tried to open my mouth to yell for someone, but—I had no tongue.”

“In your dream,” Park couldn’t stop herself from saying.

Holt shook his head again, but Park couldn’t tell what it meant. He continued, “My lungs were frozen; I couldn’t breathe. I was cold—so fucking cold. Like I was dead. Like my skin was peeling off. None of my organs were working. And I—I wasn’t in control of myself. I wanted to go outside. Leave the ship. But I was trapped inside my body and couldn’t move. I thought to myself that I’d rather be dead than keep feeling that way. I wanted to be dead.”

He took the helmet off and covered his face with his hands. Park thought, Suicidal ideations? Isn’t it too early for this? Holt hadn’t even gone outside yet, as far as she knew. Was he already buckling under the effects of the isolation? Space psychosis?