You get Paz.

That matters more than anything you will write except the part you write honestly: the skid is bent, one sample tube weeps a smell like rotten eggs into a bag it should not have needed, and Yuna’s second ghost was a chimney you nearly introduced to Sprat on the way home.

Paz drinks ginger tea with both hands. “You’re a good maybe. Be a better last meter.”

Reed flicks your ear, less fond than earlier. “Finding is not recovering. Matched buoyancy is the last meter. Checklists are how last meters stay boring.”

Outside the port, still no view. You do not need one. You have a person on the dry side of the pool, a habitat that sat on its terrace like a brick, and a science box that will have to try again when you are ready to be boring on purpose.

Vargas logs: Junior brought the hull home. Recommend more flights, more lists.

You unclip, clip again, write: I found with sound. I rushed the dock. Next time I talk the last meter.

THE END

What you learned: a correct range is not a recovery. Near-neutral trim and a spoken lock recipe keep a small hull from becoming a roll. Finding is the first sport. The last meter is the one that counts.