“Good night,” she said, weary. Then she closed her eyes as she listened to him leave the room, his heavy tread thumping away into the darkness. As frustrated with him as she was, she was a little glad that he had accompanied her into her office. The ship was still on lockdown—it was still technically lights-out hours for the crew—and she had half-expected to find Holt sitting in the shadows when she came in, his features glowing with the MAD greenness. The thought made her heart beat just a little more quickly.

She turned on her console in a rush and recorded a message for the ISF outpost on Corvus. She told them about Elly’s nightmares, her symptoms, the similarities to Holt, whose session transcript she had already sent earlier in the day. She mentioned her suspicions of shared psychosis. Holt’s escape from the medical bay. She confessed that she wasn’t sure what to do.

And then, hesitating, she brought up the fact that Boone was carrying a weapon that could incapacitate the entire crew. She asked, in more diplomatic terms, if the ISF Eos Committee really thought that this was wise.

“I’m standing by for directives,” Park said, rounding off the video. She added, unable to stop herself: “Please respond ASAP.”

She tapped the button; sent the video rushing off into space. Then she sat back and closed her eyes. It would take eighteen hours for the message to transmit to its destination, another eighteen hours for her to receive an answer. So she had a day and a half to operate on her own before receiving any form of guidance.

Her hair was still wet. She hadn’t taken the time to dry it. Park felt like a piece of damp paper—slowly disintegrating, on the edge of falling apart. She felt the tightness around her temples again and quelled it. Affirmative thoughts, she told herself, taking a breath. Positive action. She went over to the couch and set the MAD to ten minutes.

Fulbreech came in on minute eight. Park heard him enter but couldn’t force herself to raise her arms and lift the MAD off of her head. Her brain was adjusting its chemical levels, like a violin being tuned: dopamine and euphoria bloomed through her skull. She said something to him, half-slurring. Fulbreech sat down across from her, in the seat she usually sat in, and waited.

When the MAD powered off, Park lifted the visor and said, “How did you get in?”

She was embarrassed that he’d caught her in a vulnerable position—that he’d found her using the MAD, something he himself always refused. Fulbreech, studying her with interest, said, “You left the door unlocked. They’re still looking for Holt. I wanted to check on you before I turned in.”

“Check in on me,” Park repeated. “Because . . .”