on a generational spaceship. The solar lamp in the roof of the Feeder Level goes dark, but it’s no more night than the clouds painted on the metal ceiling are sky. Nevertheless, everything important that has ever happened to me has happened at “night.” For once, Harley isn’t painting. I lean over his shoulder—he’s doing some sort of math, never my strong point. Never Harley’s, either. “What are you doing?” “Shut up,” he says genially. “What is he doing?” I ask Kayleigh. She shrugs and returns to the digital membrane screen she’s reading. Math is her specialty, but she’s reading scientific articles on physics and propulsion. Probably something to do with whatever crazy invention she’s going to work on next. I resign myself to silence, staring out the window. No one else is in the common room of the Ward. The others have long since gone to their rooms. The solar lamp will be covered soon, washing the Feeder Level of the ship Godspeed in darkness for exactly eight hours, the precise amount of time we are allotted to sleep.
