My husband hadn’t spoken to me for three days. It was the longest we’d ever gone without talking. The recycled air in the transport pod was thick with tension, suffocating in the close quarters.

 

Marcus sat with his back toward me, fiddling with a soldering iron. The control panel of our comms system had broken during the fight, when things got out of hand.

 

Bitch. Pathetic. Selfish. Spineless. You disgust me. I wish you were dead.

 

We'd wielded words like knives, slicing each other open and watching slippery guts tumble out.

 

I spat in his face. He pushed me. I tripped backward over a kitchen chair and fell into the comms station, shattering the only thing that connected us to the outside world.

 

I shook off the memory, shuddering at its intensity. The emotional wounds were still fresh, pinked on the surface and tender to the touch.

 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The Terra-5 relocation program was supposed to be a fresh start. We sent the application on a whim; a whiskey-fueled decision on the third anniversary of Kendra’s death. A desperate bid to prove to ourselves we were more than dried-up, middle-aged husks.

 

By the time the Terra-5 Ambassador called eighteen months later, we’d settled into a chilly cohabitation, an existence fueled by little more than going through the motions.

 

“We’ve had a spot open up.” The Ambassador had walked through the terms and conditions of the relocation agreement in mind-numbing detail, lulling us into a strange sense of bureaucratic security. “The main ship has already departed, but we can send you on an automated satellite transport. It’s not fancy, but it’s just big enough for the two of you. Perfect for a married couple.”

 

We both knew something had to change. Hurtling through space for three months in the equivalent of a tin-can studio apartment seemed exciting. A new adventure, a way to leave our tragedy behind. But it followed us, a stowaway on our makeshift lifeboat.

 

A fizz of electricity. A sharp snap. Clanging metal.

 

“GODDAMMIT.” Marcus slammed his fists on the workbench, making the tiny pieces jump.

 

Something in the defeated slump of his shoulders softened me. We used to love each other. I remembered his brown eyes sparkling as I walked down the aisle at our wedding, a single tear rolling down his cheek when we said our “I do’s.” A sense of longing ached deep within me. I couldn’t do this anymore. Five years of words left unsaid had taken root like a quiet fungus, festering and rotting us from the inside.

 

I steeled myself and stood behind him. I went to place a hand on his shoulder, but before I could he stiffened, hackles raised. I dropped it to my side instead.

 

“I guess we should have stayed in therapy.” I attempted a halfhearted chuckle, trying to lighten the heaviness in the room.

 

He grabbed his tools and returned to work. I took a deep breath.

 

“When Kendra died, I blamed you. I know it’s unfair, but that’s the truth. I can’t tell you how many times I wished you died in that car instead of her.”

 

Silence.

 

“You wouldn’t talk about it, still won’t talk about it. I just — I can’t understand. You shut me out, Marcus. And I’m so angry with you. But I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

 

More silence.

 

“Now that we’ve left everything we’ve ever known, I’m...” My voice wobbled. I bit my lip, counted to three, and tried again. “I’m afraid we’re going to forget her.”

 

No response.

 

Frustration bubbled under my calm veneer. “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

 

The comms screen stuttered to life. He scrambled, flicking buttons, crossing wires, repeating, “Hello? Can you hear me?” over and over until the phrase lost meaning.

 

Finally, a voice on the other end. A sign of life.

 

“My wife.” Marcus’ words were choked, desperate. “She had an accident.”

 

I moved out of the camera’s view. “Don’t,” I hissed, incensed at the idea of airing our dirty laundry to strangers.

 

“I didn’t know what to do.” He pressed the meaty part of his palms into his eye sockets. “I put her in the airlock.”

 

The sentence hit me like a fist, making my head go fuzzy. I tried to steady myself, but my vision swam. Marcus kept talking, but his voice was muffled, a million miles away.

 

I stumbled toward the airlock and stood on my tiptoes, peering through the tiny round window.

 

And there I was. Slumped against the wall, blue-faced and slack-jawed, blank eyes in a frozen stare, trails of crusty brown blood covering my shoulders.

 

I caught the words “a head wound,” from behind me, but I was mesmerized, transfixed at the sight of my bloated corpse.

 

A head wound, I repeated. My voice, I realized, made no sound at all.