by Hugh Howey
Half a billion of those are on me.
Claire pulls me close, places her hand on the back of my hand, holding my palm where the baby is kicking, is trying to distract my thoughts and redirect them to life. To renewal. The old lighthouse settles onto its foundation, the work crew tight and organized. I can feel the lacework of scars beneath Claire’s dress. She’s been trying to convince me that the boy should have my name. I haven’t liked the idea. I don’t want him to turn out like me.
But maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll do my name proud. And so I squeeze Claire’s hand and I agree. I test it out, whispering my own name in Claire’s ear, but the syllables are lost in a sudden breeze, and the soft sound is carried far out to sea, where it will swirl and mingle and be lost and present for all the rest of time.
* * *
[1] A junked-up nav beacon on the edge of sector eight.
[2] She’s dreamy.
[3] Okay, sometimes I think she wants to kill me. She’s like a cross between a Labrador and a leopard. And I’m pretty sure she reads minds.
[4] Honestly, I can’t tell why I’m even needed here.
[5] If you can call a NASA lifeboat a “car.” It gets me to my girl’s place and back. Drives like shit.
[6] In deep space, no one can hear you sob.
[7] Look at all that nothingness. Can you feel it looking back?
