Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(65)

Gently, without acknowledging it, he puts his arm around me, wraps his fingers around my shoulder, and presses me to him. We lie this way, in zero gee, until a ship alarm goes off. The computerized voice echoes in the small space.

“Landing sequence activated.”

We put on our helmets and do one last check of our suits.

He smiles at me. “See you on Earth.”

“Yeah. See you there.”

The ship rumbles. Even through the cool space suit, I can feel the heat increasing as we enter the planet’s atmosphere. The module has a heat shield, and it should hold, but I can’t help but think back to the capsule I was aboard in orbit a few months ago.

With each passing second, the heat increases. The module shakes more violently. I glance over at James, and he’s looking at me. Not worried. Not even a shred of concern in his eyes. That steels me.

In the roar of the turbulence and the soaring heat, I lose all sense of time. Suddenly there’s a lull in the roar. Complete silence. Then a kick, the retro rockets firing, trying to slow our descent. We hurtle toward Earth in silence, me staring at James and him staring at me.

The rockets fire again, course-correcting, the autopilot hopefully doing its job. There’s another wild jerk, and I can feel the g-forces fade away. The parachutes have deployed. I check the straps one last time. I know what’s coming. A landing from space has been described as a train wreck, followed by a car accident, followed by falling off your bike. This feels worse.

Through the porthole, I see only blue, with the occasional swath of white. Then suddenly, without warning, there’s a crash and a boom the likes of which I’ve never heard before, never felt before.

And everything goes dark.





Consciousness comes in flickers as if I’m watching the world from behind a slow-moving fan, the blades blotting out the world, the area in between revealing it in flashes. James is there, leaning over me, his helmet off, speaking. I can’t hear the words. My ears ring. My body is numb.

I try to sit up, but I can’t. Looking down, I realize he has unfastened my straps. His fingers touch my neck, checking my pulse. He must like what he sees. His face relaxes.

Slowly, hearing returns. He’s on the radio, talking with someone from the Atlantic Union. I’m suddenly aware of the sensation of movement, the capsule bobbing in the water. I try to sit up again, and this time I succeed, but I’m still weak. James looks over at me.

“It’s going to be all right.”

I nod. My head feels wobbly, like I’m trying to balance a bowling ball on a toothpick. What’s happening to me?

It’s like the Pax all over again.

I let myself fall back to the padded wall. The world feels so heavy. As if I’m wearing a lead suit. After almost a year in space, and weightlessness, I feel like an alien on this planet. Like my body wasn’t made for it. Like the gravity here will drag me into the ground and never let me up.

I close my eyes, and darkness comes again.





I awake in a hospital. The bed is soft. Machines surround me. Through a window, I see a vast expanse of desert dotted by white tents. They glow like lanterns floating on a sea of sand.

James is here, sitting in a reclining chair in the corner, head laid to the side, asleep. I wouldn’t dare wake him.

My body still feels heavy, as if I’m sinking into the soft bed.

I jump at a knock on the door. It swings open, and a nurse comes in, a cheery smile on his face.

“You’re awake!”

James stirs, cracks his eyes open. He looks so tired.

I push myself up on the bed.

“I am.”

“I’m just gonna have a look at you,” the nurse says.

He does a cursory exam, speaking softly as he works. “You spent some time in quarantine. You probably don’t remember. They cleared you, and we’re just going to keep you long enough to make sure you’re all right. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“I’m going to tell the doctor you’re awake. He’ll be very relieved.”

The nurse nods at James as he exits, closing the door behind him, leaving us alone.

“How was it?” I ask. “The retrieval?”

“Piece of cake,” James says.

He’s becoming a better liar. I’m concerned.

“Right. What now?”

“Now, we’re going to get you back in shape.”





For the first day in the hospital, all I do is eat and sleep and talk with James. He sits in the chair in the corner, and we even play a few games of cards on the tray table beside my bed.

As strange as it sounds, I miss that module in space. It was cramped and dangerous, but when I remember it, all I think about is how cozy it was and the fact that for two months, James and I sort of forgot about everything else. Back here on Earth, I’m acutely aware of what we’re facing.

I get a rude awakening when I try to go to the bathroom. I swing my legs over the bed, and James takes my hand. When I try to stand, my legs fail me. James is there to catch me, his hands under my armpits holding me until the nurse comes in. I manage to make it to the door and into the bathroom and to do my business alone—for that, I’m thankful. But the exercise is a humbling preview of the road ahead.