Firstclass: Pov

I unstick my glove from the hull. “On my way, Commander.”

I begin the slow drift back, hand over hand along the station’s hull. My tether trails behind me like an umbilical cord—which, I suppose, it is. Attached to this metal womb, fed by its tubes and wires, breathing its recycled farts and science experiments. firstclass pov

I look out at the black. There’s always anomalies. The human body isn’t meant for this. My fingernails are loose from the pressure gloves. My retinas have micro-tears from cosmic rays. My spine compresses and decompresses like a sad accordion every time I sleep in the centrifuge. I unstick my glove from the hull

The first time I saw Earth from up here, I cried. Not the delicate, single-tear kind of crying they write about in poems. I mean the ugly, heaving, snot-and-saltwater kind. My helmet fogged up so badly the proximity alarms went off. I had to explain to Mission Control that I was fine, just—overwhelmed. They laughed. Told me to get it together, rookie. Attached to this metal womb, fed by its