Why do I feel like my six-year-old self, playing dress-up in my mother’s uniform?
I open my eyes to find Haven staring at me, dead-on, six inches from my nose. The look on her face reminds me of one of the royals from the card deck.
“What?” I say, scowling, and she cracks up.
“It’s just—you—you looked soterrified!”
“I don’t see what’s funny about that.” Iamterrified. I usually hide it better, I guess.
“I can make the call, if you want?” she offers, remnants of laughter still on her face.
It’s tempting—there’s a reason she’s the one who does our station-wide announcements, the face of all our communications. I sound too severe under pressure, I’ve been told. Really,I’m just measuring my words so they don’t come out wrong. The irony.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” I say. No part of me is lookingforwardto the call, but as our designated leader, I feel like it’s my official responsibility to take care of communication with Nashville. This isn’t just a morning announcement we’re talking about. Besides, the way she assumes I may need her to do it for me rubs me the wrong way.
“Okayyy,” she singsongs. “If you’re sure.”
I grin, tight-lipped, so what I’m actually thinking won’t slip out.
This lack of sleep is becoming problematic for my patience.
Zesi, Leo, and Heath are already inside when Haven and I enter the room. Zesi and Heath are on the rolling stools, both looking a little fidgety. Leo paces the room, runs a hand through his hair every few seconds. Leo rarely shows his nerves like this—most days, you’d have to look close to know he felt nervous at all.
Good to know I’m not alone in my uneasiness.
There’s a gleam to the countertop’s steel this morning, no trace of last night’s dirty mugs or coffee splatters. Zesi must have been the one to clean up, I’d bet my mother’s chair on it. He’s always been a bit of a clutterphobe. Also, I recognize a stress-clean when I see it—I do the same thing when I need to calm down.
Leo stops pacing when he sees me, and Heath rises fromhis stool. Both look like they’re about to go in for a hug, to hugme, but are each caught off guard by the other. We all end up rooted in place, the world’s most awkward quadrangle, Haven its fourth corner.
“So,” Leo says, eyes on me. “You’re good to go with what you’ll tell Shapiro?”
“Good on my end.” I avoid everyone’s eyes, Haven’s especially—I’m still technically working the words out in my head. “Zesi? What about communications? You’re all up and ready, too?”
“They couldn’t have made it easier,” he says, gesturing to the display screen. I peer down over his shoulder and see options forquick reply,voice, andvideobeside the log entry labeledShapiro—Nashville.
“Great,” I say. “This is great.”
Suddenly, heat floods my cheeks like I’m standing in a spotlight made of pure sunbeams. It’s only a call, I tell myself, swallowing my panic. It’s only a call to the head of Earth-based station relations, only a call full of slippery not-quite-lies, of half-truths—unless I decide to tell him thefulltruth, which could be significantly more helpful, but still feels risky. Either option feels like a playing-card fortress that could collapse under the force of a single breath.
“Do you want us to leave so you can be alone?” Heath asks. “Would that help?”
The idea alone is pure relief. “Yes,” I say. “Yeah, I think thatwould help a ton, if you don’t mind.” I’m worried enough about how the call will sound to Shapiro—taking out the worry about how I’ll sound to everyone else is a weight off. “Thank you. I’ll catch you up right after.”
Heath, Leo, and Zesi file out, but Haven lingers. “You sure you’ve got this?”
She’s overdoing it today, and I feel more insulted than supported, but maybe that’s just me and my lack of sleep; maybe it’s just me projecting my fears that I’m not doing well enough quickly enough for everyone on board. Either way, it’s more motivation than ever to make it through this call.
“I’mfine, okay?” My words bite, sharp-toothed and snapping, and I only minimally regret them. Maybe they’ll save us in the future, make her think twice next time before she says something that makes me want to cut even deeper.
Haven backs away, hands up. To her credit, she doesn’t say anything more, but I know from experience that that’s worse, sometimes. I also know from experience that we’ll recover, that we just need some time to cool off. Her sleep was interrupted last night just like mine was—there’s a reason I don’t wake her up unless it’s absolutely necessary, and it’s that she doesn’t handle it well. She gets prickly.
Finally, it’s just me and the display screen, alone in Control. It’s time.
My finger hovers overvoice. No way I’m choosingvideo, where Shapiro will see the fear on my face, and the cracks in my truth, too. I tap the audio-only option before I can take it all back,before I take Haven up on her offer. The timer starts counting, and the call connects before even two seconds tick past.
“Shapiro,” says a breathless, sleepless voice. “Shapiro here—Lusca, we thought you were dead.”Luscais the official name of our station, but I’ve only ever seen it in written form, on supply order forms and carved into the wall just outside Control.
My voice catches at first, but I collect myself and force out the words. “We’re—we’re alive. This is Lindley Hamilton—”
