Through the window you see home. Earth. Round, gorgeous. Everyone who’s ever loved you.&nbsp; Undo the buckle. Rise from the seat— no further than that. You don’t float, feet stay down. Not gravity, but the brain is fooled. Planet outside tumbles, end over end, clothes-dryer— or no, the brain is fooled again, it’s you spinning— centrifugal force, “gravity”. Tiny hum starts up. The engines, purring. Acceleration so minute, can’t even feel it. Subsonic rumble through the hull… rush of Mom’s blood through her arms, holding you close. Teddy-bear with the little vibrating motor inside when you got too big to hold: in an attic somewhere… down there. Wondering where you went. Earth getting smaller. Smaller. Indicator flips after a few hours; not enough fuel to change your mind and go back. Jupiter; no other futures besides maybe exploding on the way. Chestnut Hill Cemetery… two blocks from Putterham Market, Allandale Farm. Mom… Dad, in a few years… who’s going to bury him? The family plot, one space left, your name, but empty forever. You’re just a hole, now, in a hundred places and lives.&nbsp; Tap a button. Screen shuts off— planet and stars vanish.&nbsp; Gravity stays. Hatch opens behind you. Step out into the sunny afternoon, squinting, as Lisa checks over the simulator report— “Too much rumbling? Need to make the engines quieter?” When this flies for real… not a short trip. Years. Thousands of course-corrections. Slightest discomfort will get old, fast. But— “Engines were fine.” Lisa makes a note— “Realism problem? Display flickering again?” “No. Fully immersive.”— fully. “Then—” “Tell the engineers to lose the window. Safer that way. Space junk, right?” “Maybe,” shrugs Lisa. “Might be good for people, though. Last chance they’ll ever get to see home.” “Lose it,” you repeat. “Safer that way.”

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Matt Cantor

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