I FEEL weak when I wake up. Bruised. Head cloudy, worse than before, as if I’ve been kidnapped, beaten, and left on the roadside.

Through the grogginess, my gaze drifts to the terminal. There’s row after row of messages from the ground. I try to read them, but I can’t. I just want to go back to sleep.

I shake my head and move my arms, trying to wake myself up. Sleep equals death.

The last message reads:

Commander Matthews? Please respond.

My hands shaking, I reach out, grab the stylus, and peck at the keyboard.

I’m here.

While I wait for the response, I read through the messages above. Asking for my status. Informing me that the capsule was hit with debris (which became apparent when I was bouncing around in here like a pinball). Them telling me they were maneuvering away and to hang on (too late).

Good! You’ve given us a good scare down here.

Sorry. Pretty scary up here too 🙂 I can’t imagine.

Plan?

Working on it. Capsule status?

There’s a long pause before the reply comes.

Compromised. But we’re working on it. Don’t worry.

Nothing makes me worry like someone telling me not to worry. Well, actually, there is one thing that makes me worry more: hearing that the capsule I’m in, floating two hundred miles above Earth, is, quote, compromised. In my limited romantic experience, I’ve found that compromise is the key to successful relationships. But when you’re talking about atmospheric reentry at roughly seventeen thousand miles an hour, compromise is not the key to success. That’s how you die.

Heat is the problem. The Soyuz has a ceramic heat shield on the bottom. It’s ablative, which means it burns away as the capsule falls to Earth. The temperatures involved are extreme, thousands of degrees Celsius, enough to boil the ceramic layers. I don’t know how this capsule was constructed—I assume it’s similar—but I do know that if there’s a hole in it, I’ll burn alive in here.

And that’s not the only way I can die up here. I have a finite amount of oxygen, food, water, and fuel. Even if I can sustain myself, I need fuel to keep this capsule in orbit—and not burning up in the atmosphere.

I type the only thing I can think to say:

What can I do?

Just rest, Emma. You’ve done your part. Let us do ours.

I have to do something. I inspect the hole that Sergei plugged. I can’t discern any leakage of atmosphere at the periphery. It’s probably okay. To properly repair it, I’d need to do an EVA and patch it. But if the heat shield is compromised, it wouldn’t matter anyway. I can’t think about that. Can’t let my mind run in circles.

To keep myself busy (and awake), I count the food and water—twice. Go through all three med kits. Stare out the window a moment, looking down at North America, then take the stylus and begin pecking out a letter to my sister. It’s a struggle to type this way, but the bigger struggle is coming up with the words. This is probably the last thing I will ever say to her. There’s so much I want to tell her. And so much I can’t.

To Mission Control:

When time allows, please pass along this letter to my sister.

Thanks.

Dear Madison,

There was an accident on the ISS. It was no one’s fault, just a random solar event. Bad luck. I survived. My crew didn’t. I tried to save them.

A tear forms in my eye. When it breaks loose, I lose it. I release the stylus, which drifts to the end of its cord and snaps back, like a running dog that doesn’t realize it’s on a leash.

I float into the capsule and cry and cry some more, all the emotion of the last twenty-four hours hitting me at once.

All I have is time. I am cast away on an island in the sky, no chance of getting home. This is my message in a bottle—my last letter to my only sibling and best friend. I have to get it right.

I erase the last line and continue.

My crew didn’t. They were a good crew. The best crew (but I’m biased).

Don’t be sad for me. I knew the risks when I came to the ISS. Space was my dream. I knew it could end this way, but I’m happy that I lived this dream for so long.

There are some things I want to say. The Tiffany necklace I inherited from Mom—I’d like for Adeline to have it. I can’t really think of a use for the rest of my earthly possessions. They’re likely not worth much in the Long Winter. Don’t spend any time on them. You, David, and the kids need to get to one of the habitable zones. Or underground if they’re building colonies. I know that sounds extreme, but please trust me. Sell whatever you have to and go. Don’t look back. Please. If I’m wrong, you can start over. If I’m not, you all won’t survive.

I love you so much.

—Emma

A reply comes promptly after I send it.

We’ll deliver it, Commander.

I have a request. Proceed.

My sister is the only family I have. Is the government planning a shelter from the Long Winter? If so, I request a place for her. I assume there would have been a place for me. Please transfer it to her.

You’re talking like you’re not coming home. You are. We just need some time.

Even if I were on the ground, I would give them my spot. Please.

Understood. I’ll take this upstairs as soon as I can.

I float away from the screen. That was worth surviving for. Saving them. All of a sudden, I feel a lot better, even though I know I’ll never leave this capsule alive.