You close the last meters like a dare.

Reed says your name like a brake. Sprat gets bigger in the acrylic the way the Moon got bigger in a book you are not in. Paz’s voice climbs. “Slow—slow—”

You can still abort, dump a blip of reverse, become a fish that arrived. You can still believe a bump is a hello.

Newton will translate hello into a roll if you ask it wrong.

Yuna, from the house: “Closing speed is a choice. Choose a small one.”

The puck’s proximity bar is a red sentence.