He’s so thin now. I hadn’t even noticed, seeing him every second of every day, but here, while he’s asleep and flushed and delirious, I can see how lean he is. I brush the damp hair back from his forehead.

“I’ll be back,” I murmur. “Hold on.”

He calls out for Sarah as I make my way back toward the ship, and it breaks my heart. I’d sit with him and be his Sarah if I could, if there were someone else to go look for his medicine. But I leave him with his ghosts and descend into the wreck, ignoring the voice behind me begging me to return.

In the darkness, the ship is a maze.

Over the last few days of searching I’ve still only found the one entry point, so every time I come back I have to retrace my steps, spending precious time going over the same ruined pathways. I try every possible turn, and each attempt ends in a crushed floor or a dead-end room.

I found an emergency fire station a few hours into that first night, with a fire blanket, an ax, an extinguisher—and a handful of chemical glow sticks. I’ve discovered that they shine steadily for about an hour and a half before they start to fade, and so I’ve been using them as timers. An hour and a half, and then wherever I am, I turn back. To check on him.

Three hours in and back, and then I can make sure he’s not dead.

I’ve lost track of how many trips I’ve made. The flashlight is growing dim after so much use, so I turn it off, relying on the light of the glow sticks instead. I know this particular corridor, the pattern of its destruction, by heart now. I don’t need light here.

To the right is the laundry room. I go straight. Farther along are more corridors branching off into dormitories for the staff. I discover a tiny gym with equipment so smashed it takes me long moments to realize what it is. What hope is there that, even if I can find the sick bay, there’ll be anything remotely usable?

The darkness spins, exhaustion briefly threatening to steal my balance. I shut my eyes, stretching out a hand to grab on to the wall. I can’t afford to think hopelessly.

I wait until the dizziness passes and make a mental note to eat something the next trip I make back to camp. When I open my eyes I realize I’ve made it to an intersection where I turned right, last time. This time I go straight ahead, into new territory.

Exposed steel spars and wiring make it impossible to move without deliberation, and debris strewn about threatens to drag me down at every step. I saw the Icarus dismantled like this once before, nearly a decade ago. She was my playground once, when she was little more than a steel frame and a sketch in the minds of my father’s engineers. But then she was new and clean, bare with unrealized potential and promise. Not smashed beyond recognition.

I try to visualize the ship I played in. Did I know then what the rooms would be used for? I don’t remember. Did I ever know where the medical wing was? Was I ever sick?

No. But Anna was. For the first time the thought of my cousin doesn’t fill me with guilt so tangible I want to throw up. Instead, a tiny flicker of memory floods my mind, and with it, something like hope.

I remember the smell of soap as I brought Anna to the sick bay. And not the astringent scent of medical cleanser, but light, airy, clean-scented soap. The laundry.

I can’t be far, then. Can I?

There’s no smell of soap now, though I can smell something else. Perishable food, I think. It smells like a meat locker that’s been without power for a week. But very faint.

The glow stick is getting dimmer. I have to move more quickly. Soon I’ll need to go see if Tarver’s still alive. Check his bandage, force some water down his throat, and hope he doesn’t mistake me again for a threat. The bruise on my cheek throbs at the memory.

I can only see about a foot in front of me by the dimming light of the glow stick. Tomorrow I’ll have to remember to set the flashlight out in the sun to recharge. Tomorrow? It is night, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s tomorrow already.

Go back, I tell myself frantically. Just go back now.

I have the strangest feeling, almost a superstition, that if I leave him for more than my arbitrary three-hour limit, those few minutes will be the death of him. And yet, the time it takes to go back and forth checking on him, instead of locating medicine, could be just as deadly.

I keep moving.

The path is clear enough here that I can break into a slow run. All that hiking has paid off, and though it’s been a couple of days now since I slept more than an hour or two at a time, I still have enough energy for this.

Ahead of me yawns sudden blackness, not the grid of the floor. My mind, sluggish with lack of sleep, fails to process it. Before I realize I have to stop, I’m falling.

Something soft breaks my fall with a muffled crack. I drop the glow stick, gasping for breath as a sudden wave of nausea shudders through me. It’s the meat-locker smell, not the fall, making me sick. The smell is stronger here. Too strong.

I roll away from whatever I landed on and push myself to my feet. Half in shock, my mind runs through an oddly detached checklist of my body, making sure everything’s still working. Tarver would kill me if he knew I’d been so reckless. If he’d been here.

I turn back for the glow stick, which clattered out of my hand when I fell. I stoop to reach for it and freeze.

It’s a face. A tiny patch of sickly green glow shines from the stick, lighting the hollows of the cheeks, the empty, staring eyes, glinting off the teeth just showing between parted lips.

I scream, flinging myself away until I hit the floor. My face presses into the cold iron gridwork, and I gasp for breath, trying to inhale shallowly through my mouth. The meat-locker smell—God, and it is rotting meat, isn’t it?—is so overpowering I think for a moment I might pass out. I can taste it on my tongue.