You stay on the dark bridge because leaving feels like quitting, and quitting feels like the CO2 talking—except it is the CO2 talking when you stay, too.

Jax asks for a battery voltage. You give them a spin rate. Mira asks you to read the yellow number out loud. You say, “It’s fine,” which is not a number. The yellow number is a woodpecker. Your tongue is thick. A giggle wants out and that is not your personality.

Training said this: carbon dioxide does not always feel like choking. It feels like being the smartest person in a small room. Oxygen can still be plentiful while the leftover you breathe out slowly turns your brain into slippers.

Okonkwo’s handheld is a saw. “Cadet. Three handholds. Cartridge. If you keep occupying your hands so nobody notices your eyes, I will notice anyway.”

The engine-arm cover is closer than the hatch. It looks like a solution that would photograph well. Mira misses her buckle on the first try. “I am not as sharp as breakfast. That should scare you.”