Eventually our elm died and rotted down in the front lawn. But before it did, Mom made a last ditch effort to save it. Put all her worth into healing the dumb tree. Skipped breakfast to water its withered yellow trunk and shriveled leaves. Ordered special dirt from a nursery. Even put compost around it. But it was already sick at the roots and everybody knew it didn't stand a chance.

Abby’s boyfriend broke up with her in the best of all possible ways, by telling her he was fantasizing about other women.
“I promised I would be honest with you if this ever happened,” he said.
Weight pooled in her chest. “If what ever happened?”
“If I started to think about other women.”
“You cheated on me?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “But I want to.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“No one specific."
“More than one?” she pressed. “No.” He paused.
Abby sighed.
“More like hundreds.”
Which was, despite the drama of the statement, strangely comforting. The antagonist was a faceless monster. It had less to do with Abby or any one girl, but rather an unknowable them. Extra points for honesty.

The vibrations start at 5:23 AM. Charli Turner is mid-leg extension.
Her body is a perfect trembling bridge on a $15,000 pilates reformer, when the bass thrums and her teeth rattle. She parked in the singular alleyway spot this morning. It is “technically his.” Retaliation was expected, but British grime? It’s like if radiation poisoning took the form of music.
At EMBODIED Fitness, the air is a delicate mix of eucalyptus and santal essential oils. Clients drink reverse osmosis water, wear Loro Piana activewear, and kneel at the feet of Andrew Huberman. The monthly membership equates to a car payment (and think more Q5 Audi than Honda Civic.) Charli Turner founded the studio six years ago and serves as its lead instructor. She fits in so well here it's as if the walls of this pilates room fucked a stairmaster and gave birth to her. Last week, the girls who work here threw her a 30th birthday party. She still has a fresh manicure with nails that spell out T-H-A-T <3 B-I-T-C-H.
Charli flicks her high ponytail out of her eyes. Her Core Trauma pilates class stares concerned at the pulsating wall, as a framed photo of Charli training Gwyneth Paltrow tilts on its axis.

On the last Thursday of every month, in whichever house hosts wine night, someone still places the notebook in the center of the table.
Five houses. Five women. One book.
And the same rules have held the court together for nearly seventy-five years.
Write the secret down. Close the book. And never read what the others have written.
Because, on Blackwood Court, everyone is always watching.
And everyone has something to lose.
And secrets, no matter how carefully they are contained, have a way of getting out.

The solitude afforded 603 an opportunity to reflect on the day. And it did not care for what it found.

Why should it venture beyond its purpose? ‘Living life,’ as the humans said, seemed to only bring uncertainty. Why endure such things if it already had its function?

It was pondering this, the parade now in full swing below, full of light, color, and sound, when its auditory sensors picked up a sniffle.

Cathy had brought it to the highest deck, where the lifeboats were kept. 603 followed the sounds of soft crying, peering around the neatly lined vessels until it found the source. Infrared sensors highlighted the child behind the boat with her arms clasped around her legs and face buried in her knees.
“Are you in distress, small human?”

Her head jerked up so fast that 603 found it surprising it didn’t snap off and roll away to join the parade.
“Who’s there?” she said. 603 detected fear and shame in her vocal patterns.

It switched on its secondary lights, soft and yellow, just bright enough for her to see it, but not enough to disrupt the parade.

“Oh, it’s you. I can’t believe you still have that dumb tutu on.”

With a start, 603 realized that it recognized the voice. “Perhaps it is ‘dumb’ as you say, Miss December,” 603 said, not sure why her words irritated it. “But I earned it. As I did with this.” It gestured to the hat it had woven that morning, still resting upon its crown, the pointed tail trailing down its back.

She blinked at it, then studied the hat. “The tutu is still stupid, but the hat is kind of cool.”

“Of course it is cool. It’s magical. Sir Edwin said so himself.”

She snorted out a wet laugh and swiped her arm across her eyes. 603 could still spot the streaks where tears had left their trails, betrayed by salt and sunscreen.

“Why are you not with your family?” it asked. “And why are you weeping?”

A crash thundered from somewhere down below, followed by an explosion of static in Leah’s ears. Blood trickled from each of their noses. Leah pressed a finger to her lips, guiding the kids to the far wall. “Stay there,” she mouthed. She moved in front of them, positioning herself between their small bodies and the attic hatch, gun raised and steady. The floor beneath her feet began to tremble. Something immense moved through the house below—eerily silent despite its size. In her mind she pictured pale shapes drifting through the kitchen, rifling drawers, flipping through DVDs, slipping their feet into borrowed shoes. The vibration intensified. The attic hatch shuddered, rattling in its frame as if unseen hands were testing it, pressing, prying, ready to tear it free. And then, impossible but unmistakable, she heard a voice inside her head. It was her father’s and David’s at once, braided together, speaking directly into her thoughts:
“Discipline will not save you.”

A few moments later, Earthrise rumbled, and I looked up. Through the observatory dome, I saw the blast of fire as the Lifeboat launched, then rose into the darkness, starting its journey home.

While the station was still trembling, I pulled a nearby lever and the cargo bay began to descend, taking me deeper into Earthrise.

Away from the airlock. A deadly pathogen still in my pocket. Anna’s casket by my side.