I checked my wallet and figured that I’d have enough for some dinner and ice cream, but not much after that. Definitely not enough for more pictures. I realized this when I was half-in, half-out of the front door. Uncle Kevin helped me through the door and reminded me of the curfew: eleven sharp.

I protested that I didn’t have a watch. “Just use the clock in the park. It’s on the monument. You can’t miss it.” Actually, maybe you can, I thought. I had forgotten about it until now. “Or just ask your friends. Kirandra probably has a watch.” Did he mean that she was more responsible or something else? The confusion must have shown on my face, because he finished pushing me out the door and reminded me, “Eleven PM!”

As I started walking, my thoughts returned to money. I could make it through tonight ok, but what about after that? What would I do? I sighed and tried not to think about. Tonight was going to be fun, and I was already excited about it. I could think about money later.

“We’re both fashionable souls,” she said, wrapping a curl around her finger. Without noticing his instinctive shudder, she continued, “But wait, there’s more! No pets, annoying family members, divorced.” She raised a hand to her left eye and made a sign of crying. “Work is serious, and most importantly, We Do Not Like Them.”

The Complexitor leaned backwards, thinking. “You have a point,” he admitted at last. “We do have a few things in common.”

She clapped her hands together. “That means we should work together!”

The Complexitor spun his head so quickly that his sunglasses dipped down to reveal his shocked, confused blue eyes. He whipped the sunglasses back into position as he fumbled for words. “What?”

In a dream the day after, she visited a world barren like the desert, yet accented with pale, vine-like lichen. It seemed to be a reunion of some kind or another; she was not exactly sure. Her family was there, as nonchalant as if they had only stepped away for a day-trip, and so were Mack and Daniel. The celebration went on around her even as some faceless spacesuits beckoned for her to board a maintenance ship. It was warm and dusty outside, yet they wore full suits and their helmets were fogged up from the inside, so that she could not see their faces. Everyone was talking and enjoying themselves and did not notice her departure. When she had boarded the ship, the astronauts vanished and the ship became nothing but an empty metal shell, without furniture or decoration. She rapped her knuckles raw trying to make enough noise for someone to hear her, but no-one did. The ship took off, and she watched as her friends and family below her shrank into nothing, until at once they transformed into beams of light that shot upwards like meteors, streaking off in different directions as the ship carried her further and further away.

After breakfast and feeding Lloyd, Sarah visited each room, reliving the memories deposited there. It was a silly sort of luxury she permitted herself, like the luxury of running in the halls, but somehow it helped everything to make more sense. As she sat in the library, the conversations that she shared just a day ago echoed in her mind, joining with those of last month and the month before in a connected chain all the way back to the founding of the colony. Although a wistful smile perched upon her features, the memories made her feel full, buoyant, and somehow complete. Finally she entered the VRC room. The clock on the unit read 10:07, and she sighed; it was still too early. She went to dull the expectant tearing feeling by perusing the freebies she had received. She would call Merlianne later and read the black card later still.

She found herself in the bathroom, head in her hands, fingers spread across her temples. She Would Not Cry, she told herself. She was no melodramatic drama queen, like Ariella, even though this suddenly felt like a bad episode of Star Knights. Ariella would leave the bathroom with reddened eyes, still moist with tears, to find solace in the arms of Sir Byron! The parallels to her own life caught her off-guard and suddenly breathless.

No. That was impossible. Daniel would frown upon such obvious manipulation. She forced a smile until she could look at herself in the mirror and recognize that this was nothing more than a case of bad manners. It was up to her as the host to overlook such trifles, because the maintenance ships stopped by only once a month. She resolved to do so and went in search of her guests.

The Errorist’s incessant fashion advice had not helped matters. He simply couldn’t see himself in one of those body-hugging turtlenecks or purposefully grungy long-sleeved unbuttoned and untucked numbers. For one, he was built more like a tank than like a willow tree, with certain parts of him more armored than others. Secondly, he was never one for fashion. Even back when he was married, he had a very functional approach to clothes: did it fit, did it cost less than the grocery bill, and was it not paisley. One of his cousins got him something paisley every year for Christmas as a joke. He hated it. So what should he wear now when the objective was to look decent? He had finally settled on something if not fashionable, at least something not unfashionable: a pair of ironed Dockers, comfortable loafers, and a crisp polo with alternating stripes. A light brown jacket topped it off. Most importantly, he had the blueprints for the restaurant and Roberts had retrieved character studies of the regulars and all the staff. If things started to get out of hand, he could quickly manipulate the seething brew of restaurant politics into terrifying incompetence. He had the upper hand.

He went to remind Damien of the rules one last time before leaving, and noticed that the guest bedroom door was shut. He thought about knocking but a cold realization struck him: he was acting just like Damien’s father! The thought disgusted him and so he checked over his equipment and information one last time. With a curt nod to himself, he donned only one pair of sunglasses and stepped out.

During breakfast, I remembered that Kirandra hadn’t said what time she was coming by. She knew that I had to work, right? I knew she worked days. “Crud,” I said to no-one in particular. I didn’t even know her last name! How was this going to work? I guess she could call, because we did have an answering machine. I looked over at it despondently, not liking feeling helpless, and got to work on pressure washing the vinyl siding.

I had finished one side and started the other when I decided to go in for lunch. Just then I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the spy-hole and sure enough, it was Kirandra, with two fishing poles and a picnic basket. She brought lunch? I looked even worse than last time and probably smelled twice as bad. I wiped my face off and cracked the door open.

“Hi,” I said, peering through the crack.

“Hi.” A look of confusion played across her face.

The cratered surface beneath the rover’s wheels gave her a bumpy, jostling ride, even if it was a predictable one. She knew the path by heart, and the previous trails leading from the colony to the landing pad demonstrated it. She clutched the oversized steering wheel for balance, dodging and ducking at crucial moments the whole way.

Finally she reached the perimeter of the pad, which wasn’t so much of a pad as a relatively flat space on the surface. She pulled the rover to a stop and sighed. Even more waiting! She fixed her gaze upon the ship and waited until a dark square opened in its surface. Then a dull-white metallic ladder fell to the surface with a dull thump, sending up a small cloud of rock dust. Daniel — he was always first — poked his helmeted head out the door and waved to her. She waved back, fidgeting in her seat. Then, as if in slow-motion, three spacesuits clambered down the ladder to the surface below, and began their loping half-bouncing, half-walking journey towards the rover.

Among them was Brandon Wilson, between his moments of wondering about the YMSPCI and daydreaming about Wenchy; he was unknowingly joined by Jennifer Brunelle, Tabitha Fenris, Ed Hopper, Moe Turner, and Jack Reinhart. Then suddenly Brandon remembered what Veero had said about the other members — what if they were people that he didn’t get along with?

He tried to reassure himself. “Hey, I am the Last Man,” he thought. “I can handle it. I’ll endure. I’ll make it through.” He knew that he would, although it probably wouldn’t be easy. Deep down inside, though, he felt a momentary pang of frustration, of breaking, of giving up.

* * * * *

Windwalker Franklin stood in the DMIC lounge, supervising HIM moving boxes and rearranging furniture. Between indicating directions, he made fine adjustments to various activities on the calendar. To no-one in particular, he said aloud, “There have been several changes since I left.” HIM said, “It wasn’t my idea.”

Wenchy purposefully ignored HIM. “I did make some adjustments,” she admitted, pushing back her glasses, “but it was for the better!”

Franklin coughed politely and switched the subject. “How do you think Brandon will respond to the reintegration?”

As I flipped through them, I realized that there weren’t any people in them. Lots of strange angles, some cool devices from where Uncle Kevin worked, and the sunset on my first day here. It felt empty, like I had just captured the outside of things but I was missing the inside. Before I left, I was going to take pictures of — people. Friends wasn’t exactly right, but I wanted to remember them: Kirandra, J, Uncle Kevin — everyone. It would be a lot better than forgetting, like I had never been here at all.

After breakfast, I scanned Uncle Kevin’s note and remembered the discussion that we had last night. Today would be a day of cleaning the vinyl siding on either side of the house, outside. The job required a pressure washer and he didn’t own one. Fortunately, he had hooked me up with someone who did. “Go talk to the Martins. They’re three houses down on the right. They know you’re coming.” The note reminded me of the water-to-bleach ratio that the machine needed.

I lazed around a bit before I took a shower and got some clothes on. Part of me thought about what would happen if I just didn’t do the job at all. The images that came to mind convinced me that was a bad idea: getting grounded by my uncle, being shipped on a plane home, having my parents keep an eye on me no matter what I did after that. I did call J, though, to see what he was up to. His mom said that he was over with friends playing Zombie Mayhem Twelve. “It’s the Thursday fragfest,” she said. I got the impression that she played the game herself, and that she was pretty good.

I made my way over to the Martin’s around ten. I knocked and Mr. Martin greeted me at the door. He was a spry older man, about the age of my grandfather, I guessed. He wore black-rimmed glasses that barely held back bright dark-blue eyes. That sounds weird, but his eyes were bright even though they were dark in color. His nose seemed too large for his glasses, he had a mop of thinning black hair, and his hands were always moving.

Of course, she had also performed the usual monthly checks as required by the colony charter. The seals on the inner and outer air lock were tight; emergency generators were working; the nuclear generator checked out; all the portal seals felt fine; the recycling system and the air plants worked and looked healthy. She had run a complete diagnostic according to the manual, including the integrated computer control system. Everything was in tip-top shape, spic and span. At the end of the day, she had virtually collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

Today she had awoken feeling like she was made out of pure energy. The maintenance crew usually arrived at ten CST and stayed until right before supper. The seven chimes from the grandfather clock had roused her, which left her three hours to go over the rover and her spacesuit, and to make a final check on everything else. She held Lloyd up to her face and said, “Today’s the day!” He meowed curiously as she twirled out of bed and into the kitchen to fix breakfast and begin the tarts.