‘Coming through. Careful.’
I reach my hand back as far as I can, and Hunter strains forward to press the coil of insulated wires against my palm. I ease them forwardverycarefully, past my body, until I can set the loop of wires on top of the duct cover, making sure the live end doesn’t touch the grate. The pipe we’re inshouldn’tconduct electricity, but I’d rather not test that theory.
‘Screwdriver?’
‘Screwdriver,’ he says, like some kind of surgeon’s assistant, passing it forward. Our hands brush as I reach back for it, and he presses his fingertips against mine. On purpose? Maybe.
Slowly, carefully, I start to unfasten the screws that keep the duct’s hinges in place. My chest feels tight, and I try a deeper, slow breath, but it’s as if my lungs refuse to expand. I neverused to have a problem with small spaces, until I launched from Earth crammed into a packing box.
The crew member who smuggled me on sprayed foam all around me to help counter the gravity of takeoff, and its spongy texture locked my limbs into place, my face turned up to breathe as he hammered the lid down hard.
I still dream, sometimes, about the roar and the vibrations of that moment. About the fear that he might just not come back, and I’d be stuck there, trapped like a fly in a web. I donotlike to rely on others.
‘All right?’ Hunter asks, catching me by surprise.
‘Tight fit,’ I mutter. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Well, let me know if you want a foot massage while you work,’ he jokes, and though I give a little kick to warn him, I’m also glad the dark hides the smile he draws out of me.
He pays more attention than I expect him to, this boy. The world parts around him when he moves, and I’d expect him to just stride ahead without even noticing. But he sees things, Hunter Graves.
‘So,’ I say, reaching for distraction, and remembering I’m supposed to be bonding with Hunter – I can multitask – ‘your mom’s at the GravesUP compound? Has it been a long time since you saw her?’
‘About five years,’ Hunter replies, quiet in the dim light. ‘Earth years, not Martian. Only about’ – he pauses to calculate – ‘two point seven years, Martian. That sounds better.’
‘She’s been on Mars forfive years?’ There’s no way that woman has enough strength left in her body to ever return toEarth, not after five Earth years in light Martian gravity. I’m surprised a CEO at her level would close off that avenue.
‘No, she’s only been here for one,’ he says. ‘She’s just had a lot going on.’
There’s a pause as I search for the right response to his mom’s calendar having been too full to see her son for five freaking years. I mean, I know about shitty moms, but his sounds like a real prize. Luckily for me, Hunter fills the silence.
‘I was with my dad most of that time.’
‘I guess you’re going to miss him, coming here,’ I offer as the first screw comes out of the vent cover.
Now it’s Hunter’s turn to pause. I wait it out. ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘We kept it out of the news, but he died. Mom doesn’t like public displays of vulnerability, so she didn’t really want people to know.’
‘Oh, shit. Sorry.’ And I am. Graves or not, I know exactly what it’s like to lose your dad. And to have a mom who cuts you loose.
I can’t help wondering how a member of the Graves family could possibly get so sick that they couldn’t pay their way out of it, though.
‘He was killed,’ Hunter says, as if reading my mind. Or perhaps people always wonder.Always? How many people has he told?‘It was protesters,’ he continues. ‘Mars For All.’
‘What did—’ I catch myself mid-sentence. ‘Why did they target him?’ Notwhat did he do?, though he probably did.
‘No reason in particular, apart from marrying into the Graves family,’ Hunter whispers. ‘They wanted my mother’sattention. My father was an artist.’ His voice cracks on that husky whisper with something fierce – a sharp grief, an anger that’s still burning bright.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say again, which is such a useless response. But there’s a reason everyone always says it – there’s nothing better you can replace it with. Because nothing really helps.
‘I saw it,’ Hunter says softly. ‘He was coming back from some charity thing, and I was out on the front steps of our house to meet him. His motorcade blew up just as it came through our gates. There was this fireball, and his car flew into the air. It kept turning over and over … By the time I got to the car, I could hear him screaming inside, and then he stopped.’
And his mother stayed on Mars, leaving her son to get through that alone. I don’t let myself say that out loud. If Hunter doesn’t want to see that choice for what it is, now isn’t the time to rub his nose in it.
I wish I could take his hand, but all I can do is stretch my arm back, silent. I can’t even turn my head.
After a moment, his fingers brush against mine. ‘It was about six months ago,’ he says, his whisper still rough. ‘I’m not good at telling the story yet.’
I donotwant to feel sorry for the sad billionaire in the ventilation tunnel behind me, but honestly, this is a lot.
