My oxygen is at sixty-eight percent. I should move.

I take the pouch. Nod.

I’m projecting. Obviously.

I look out at the black. There’s always anomalies. The human body isn’t meant for this. My fingernails are loose from the pressure gloves. My retinas have micro-tears from cosmic rays. My spine compresses and decompresses like a sad accordion every time I sleep in the centrifuge.

Halfway there, I stop.

I am First Class.

“Good. Ease on back to the airlock. We’ve got a supply drone docking in four hours, and I need you on the grapple.”

I should feel proud. I’m the youngest First Class in the program. I’ve logged more EVA hours than anyone under forty. My mother sends me photos of my old bedroom, which she’s turned into a yoga studio. My father still calls me “the astronaut” like it’s a cute phase I’ll grow out of.