Chapter Text
“Wonderful weather today.”
I look up. I’m not in the mood for conversation, but the woman looks back at me expectantly, so I give a short nod and say, “Indeed.”
The sky is clear and blue, and the sun warms my skin. A summer like any other. A summer like every one before it. The last one.
“But it won’t stay like this much longer,” the woman warns. She takes a hearty bite out of a peach. Juice runs down her chin and drips onto her white shirt, which is too large for her. A few strands of white hair get caught in the sticky trail.
I know what she’s implying. But I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.
“Want a peach too?” The woman gestures toward me with the opening of her leather handbag. I shake my head. “No thank you,” I say as briefly and politely as I can while silently begging for the bus to arrive.
The woman takes another bite. I hear her slurp the juice through her teeth. “In five years, there won’t be any peaches left,” she informs me. “You should enjoy one while you can.”
“I don’t like peaches,” I say, hoping that ends the conversation.
“That’s a lie.”
There’s no good response to that, so I choose silence and tilt my face back toward the sun. I want to drink in every single ray like a woman dying of thirst.
The image of those big round children’s eyes keeps surfacing in my mind, and the fragile little voice that said: “My mommy said we’re all going to die soon.”
What kind of rotten soul burdens little children with something like that? I think of my own son, who is long grown by now, but who at five years old would surely have been shattered by such news. Parents these days are so brutally direct.
“Do you like reading?”, the woman asks.
I close my eyes for a moment. I’d thought the conversation was over, but apparently I’d been mistaken.
“Why do you want to know?”
The woman nods toward my lap and smiles, and only now do I realize I’m still clutching the children’s book tightly in my hands. Suddenly I feel embarrassed, and overcome with the urge to justify myself to this complete stranger.
“I was reading to the children,” I explain, without bothering to gesture toward the day care behind me.
“Every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, right?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Has this woman been watching me? “How do you know that?”
She bites into her peach again. “I have lots of time on my hands,” she says with her mouth full. I have to look away. A brief silence falls while she swallows her bite. “Just wait until you move into a retirement home. You start noticing things you never used to give a fuck about.”
Her choice of words makes me flinch inwardly.
“That’s where I live, by the way,” she says, pointing with a bony finger toward the building beside the day care. It’s painted the exact same color—a cheerful bright orange. The whole place is one of those modern concepts where old people and children are supposed to learn and benefit from one another.
I think the idea is wonderful: mornings when the children visit the elderly and play board games with them, afternoons when the elderly visit the children and read them stories. Unfortunately, ever since Covid, the concept has existed only on paper, so now I’m the old woman reading to the children. What else am I supposed to do with my time?
“My name’s Rachel,” the woman informs me, holding out her sticky hand.
I don’t take it. “Anna,” I reply.
She gives me a broad smile that breaks my heart just a little. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, Anna.”
I don’t know how to answer that.
Relieved, I see the bus finally pull up. “I have to go now,” I say. “It was nice meeting you, Rachel.”
When I get home, the smell of fresh wood hangs in the air. I sigh and place the childrens' book on the dresser.
“Harold?” I call as I walk through the house. In the living room I find Exhibit A: freshly chopped wood. That man. I’ve told him hundreds of times that he could simply buy firewood. If he keeps straining himself like this, he’ll end up ... no, I’d rather not finish that thought.
“Harold!” I call again as I open the patio door. “There you are!”
He emerges from the shed carrying Exhibits B and C under his arms. His shirt is soaked with sweat. When he sees me, he grins smugly. “Hey there, doll.”
Now I have to suppress a smile too. Foolish man. I should scold him, but I could also just enjoy the fact that he’s in a good mood today. For a moment I feel light as a feather. The air smells of pine resin and freshly cut grass. A marsh tit sings in the garden. In front of me stands the man I love, wearing an unusually silly, cheerful grin. The sun feels warm against my skin.
My mommy said we’re all going to die soon.
The memory of those words hits me like a punch and shatters the perfect picture like a mirror.
“You shouldn’t be lifting such heavy things,” I scold Harold.
“As long as I still can, what’s the problem?” He gives me a suggestive wink and walks past me into the living room with his load.
“You’re crazy,” I say, following him.
He stacks the logs beside our fireplace. “How was day care?”
My mommy said we’re all going to die soon.
“Good. Same as always,” I lie.
“What did you read?”
He rarely shows interest in what I do, and I wonder whether this whole day is trying to fool me in some way. Maybe it’s a sign that from now on everything will change. What nonsense, I scold myself. You’re getting senile.
“The Lion Inside,” I answer.
He makes a noise while arranging the logs that probably means "Keep talking, I’m listening."
“It’s a story about courage,” I say. “And friendship. The mouse overcomes its fear and befriends the lion.”
He grunts with amusement. “Would’ve been useful back when Ryland was a kid.”
I don’t comment on that. Harold is a wonderful husband and a great father, but his little jabs have rubbed me the wrong way more than once. “Have you talked to him recently?” I ask.
He stands up and shakes his head. “No, but you know him. Always on the move. Don’t worry, he's probably fine.”
He heads back outside and I watch him go.
I’m not one of those mothers who constantly worry. Or at least not one who constantly feels the need to tell everyone how worried she is. Ryland is a grown man, reasonably successful, and I don’t want to smother him or make him feel guilty. He has his own life, and that’s exactly how nature intended it. And yet a mother can never fully silence her thoughts. Sometimes at night I lie awake imagining him coming home after work to a lonely, silent apartment, cooking instant noodles and numbing his feelings with television.
If only he had a girlfriend. Or friends. Then my biggest worry would shrink considerably.
My mommy said we’re all going to die soon.
Well. My second biggest worry.
A shiver runs through me. Will Earth really die in thirty years?
I’m seventy years old now. In thirty years I probably won’t even be around anymore, so it shouldn’t matter to me—but it does. If only because of all the young people who will never get to grow old. Who will never know a life like the one I had.
I think of the children I read to today. And the children Ryland teaches. Is he thinking about the same things I right now? What will he say if I ask him about it? Will he laugh and tell me the media is exaggerating, that the sun isn’t really dying, that these astrophages are actually harmless? He understands these science-things much better than Harold and I do. Instinctively, I know he won’t reassure me.
I pull out my phone and open the last WhatsApp exchange I had with him. It was a month ago.
“Hello, dearest. I hope you’re doing well. Love you very much. Mum", I write.
Later, when it gets dark, Harold and I lie on the couch watching television. Honestly, I’d much rather sit on the patio with him and drink a glass of wine. The TV talks about nothing but the Petrova line and astrophages and the death of the sun anyway. But Harold doesn’t feel like it. He says he’s exhausted from all the hauling and would rather cuddle with me on the sofa, and besides, "we need to stay informed". So I gave in and secretly wondered when exactly we’d fallen into such a rut.
I keep hoping the news will report something positive for once. Something that will scatter my fears and give me back some hope.
The young blonde news anchor immediately crushes my naïveté. Once again she explains what we all already know. Tiny black foreign organisms are blocking the sun and feeding on its energy. The sun will grow weaker and weaker until an ice age wipes out all humanity—assuming wars don’t do it first. Human greed and selfishness truly know no bounds.
Beside the anchor sits a woman whose face has become the most recognizable one in the world within just a few days. It stares back at me from every newspaper.
After listing all these deeply discouraging facts, the anchor’s voice brightens. “The smartest scientists from around the globe are already working on a solution, led by Eva Stratt in the primary leadership role. Miss Stratt, welcome.”
“Hello,” says the woman. I think she has a very pleasant voice. But she looks exhausted. Her long auburn hair could use a cut, her eyes are tired, and her skin is pale.
Harold snorts and mutters something under his breath. I think I catch the word “incompetent.”
“Eva Stratt, you and your team have just announced your plan to save the world. Allegedly the astrophages are infecting not only our solar system, but every planet outside of it—except one. Tau Ceti remains unaffected so far. Can you explain your approach?”
“Yes. We will send the spacecraft Hail Mary to Tau Ceti. On board will be a pilot, an engineer, and a scientist. That scientist will analyze why the system has not been infected by astrophages. The results will then be transmitted back to Earth via orbiter.”
“Why via orbiter?” the anchor asks.
Eva Stratt doesn’t hesitate for even a second before giving an answer that makes my stomach turn. “Because we only have enough fuel for the journey there.”
“So that means the crew…”
“…will die in space.”
I grab the remote and switch off the television.
“Hey! I wanted to watch that!” Harold complains. “History’s being made here. Dumbest plan I’ve ever heard of, but at least somebody’s finally doing something. I’d sure love to know what Ryland thinks about it. Bet he agrees with me.”
At the mention of Ryland, I realize he still hasn’t answered me. I ignore the small stab of worry that pierces through me. Just as I ignore Harold’s grumbling.
“Why did you chop so much firewood, Harold?” I ask, staring at the ceiling. “We never used to keep this much firewood.”
I feel my eyes growing wet.
“Honeybear," Harold says, and he sounds deeply concerned now.
“It’s summer and you’re chopping firewood.” A tear slips down my cheek.
My mommy said we’re all going to die soon.
He wraps his arms around me and lets me cry while I try not to imagine three poor souls being launched into space never to return.
“Nice to see you again, Anna.”
“It’s Thursday. Reading day,” I say unnecessarily, giving Rachel a smile that hopefully apologizes for my behavior yesterday.
“What did you read to the children today?”
I show her the book. My Shadow Is Pink.
It’s about a boy who wants to wear a dress to school. I have to admit—and heaven forgive me—that I haven’t given gender equality as much thought as I probably should have. But it makes me feel good to offer the children a new perspective, because as long as there are perspectives, there will also be a future. And as long as there’s a future, this astrophage problem will solve itself somehow. Without having to sacrifice three people for it.
“Oh, how lovely,” Rachel says. “You have a knack for good books.”
“Do you have children?” I ask. It’s probably not wise to get involved with this strange old woman. She’ll start expecting conversation from me every day, and it would be unfair to encourage that just because I happen to be in the mood for it today. Still, talking to her does help. It distracts me from my worries.
“No,” Rachel says. “But I do have three ex-husbands.”
“Oh", I say, slightly taken aback from her honesty. "I’m so sorry about that.”
“Sorry? You should congratulate me.” She giggles. “I’m telling you, if divorce didn’t exist, I’d have murdered the bastards myself.”
I have no idea how to respond. I stare at her in shock. “What an awful thing to say.”
“But I didn’t do it.” She shrugs, clearly amused by my reaction. “Even if they fucking deserved it.”
Rachel’s language makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“What?” Rachel asks provocatively. “Don’t tell me bad language makes you uncomfortable.”
“As a matter of fact, it does.”
“You shouldn’t be so uptight. Trust me, it’s liberating. Try it. Fuck. Fucking fuck shit. The world is a fucking shithole.”
She giggles again, and I stare at her in horror. I can practically hear my mother turning in her grave. If she’d ever heard me swear like that, she would’ve beaten me black and blue. And yet there’s a part of me, deep down, that finds this strange old woman amusing.
“I most certainly will not say that.”
“What are you afraid of?”
What aren’t you afraid of?, would probably have been the better question. Can anyone be fearless in a world like this?
“I’m not afraid.”
“Maybe you should be.”
I look at her questioningly.
“The sun’s dying, remember?”
“And you? Aren’t you afraid?”
She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “No. It’s pointless. Even though I look positively young and radiant, I know I won’t be around in thirty years anyway. So I can happily stop giving a shit and just enjoy the rest of my time. Besides, this Eva Stratt woman seems to have everything under control.”
I remember Harold snorting yesterday and calling her incompetent. He usually knows more about these things than I do.
“Do you really think she’s right for the job? Shouldn’t someone with more experience be handling it? Someone with more authority? More expertise?”
“Eva Stratt is perfect for the job,” Rachel says. “Would you question it if she were a man?”
“Are you implying I’m sexist?”
“I thought I’d made that pretty clear.”
I don’t even get the chance to think about that because my phone buzzes, and I sigh with relief when I see Ryland has finally replied.
“Hi Mom. Sorry, I’ve been really busy lately. Nothing special. Boring teacher stuff. My students can attest haha. Hope you and Dad are doing well. Love, Ryland.”
“My son,” I tell Rachel.
Shamelessly, she leans over to look at my phone. “He’s hiding something from you,” she says with a knowing smile.
For some reason, I laugh. My son can't even fool a stranger.
I see my bus pulling up.
“Bye, Rachel.”
“See you soon, Anna.”
Despite the state the world is in, I can’t help but smile. Ryland’s cryptic message can only mean one thing: he’s finally found a girlfriend—or maybe even a boyfriend. That would explain why he’s been so scarce lately.
My heart feels so light I almost forget the world is dying.
Almost.
Two girls, no older than fifteen, are sitting behind me on the bus talking animatedly.
“Dude, I’m sooo scared, I swear.”
“Chill, bro. They’re sending up that rocket now, remember?”
“As if that’ll help.”
Everyone keeps talking about Project Hail Mary, even though it's only been announced yesterday. Every breaking news alert on my phone reports about it. When I walk past people, I catch fragments of conversation about it. On the rare occasions I go on YouTube, it recommends videos debating the ethics of the project.
Personally, I don’t know how I feel about the project. I don’t want three people to knowingly sacrifice their lives. But I also don’t want the rest of the Earth to die.
At home I cook vegetable soup, which Harold is definitely going to complain about, but he has to eat something healthy once in a while. I worry about him. He’s not exactly thin, he has high blood pressure, and he exhausts himself trying to pretend he’s still thirty. I imagine him walking in and complaining , “What’s this? Nothing to chew on?” and suddenly I picture Rachel replying, “Then cook your own fucking dinner!”
The thought makes me blush again, and I start giggling.
“What are you laughing about?”
Harold stands in the doorway, in a noticeably worse mood than yesterday. Maybe because the weather isn’t cooperating as well as yesterday. It’s cloudy, and it rained this morning. It’s much harder for everyone to pretend we’re not heading toward mass extinction when the weather looks like this.
“I was just thinking about something funny,” I say. “I met a nice lady at the retirement home.”
“Good Lord,” Harold says. “What are you doing at a retirement home? Picking out a spot for me already?”
I laugh. “No, Harold. The retirement home is right next to the day care where I read stories to children. I told you that.”
“And what about this old lady?”
“She’s interesting, that’s all. Oh, and by the way, Ryland texted me. Look.”
I hold out my phone to him. He reads the message silently, then the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement. “Remind me never to let him play poker. The guy would lose his entire fortune.”
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“You still haven’t given up hope.”
“I just want him to be happy.”
“He is happy,” Harold says. “I’m sure of it. With or without a girlfriend. We have to accept that.”
Then his gaze falls on the vegetable soup and his expression darkens. “What’s this? Nothing to chew on?”
I burst out laughing.
That evening we’re lying on the couch again, and I really, truly wish we could skip our ritual of watching the news tonight, but it matters to Harold, so I suppose it matters to me too.
The anchor reports that many people are feeling hopeful about the new Hail Mary project. However, a street survey reveals that most people remain worried and don’t expect much from it. There’s also talk of mass protests because the Hail Mary is essentially a suicide mission.
“Due to the harsh criticism the ambitious project has received so far, a press conference is being held at this very moment.”
I’m almost asleep by that point. I can hear my phone vibrate on the couch table. Then two things happen at once.
I see that my friend Clarissa has texted me:
“GOODNESS GRACIOUS, ANNA, YOU NEVER TOLD ME ANYTHING!! YOU MUST BE SO PROUD OF RYLAND!!”
And I feel Harold shaking me awake excitedly.
My eyes drift toward the television.
There, at the press conference, sits Eva Stratt, dressed in black.
And beside her sits a man in a bright yellow rain jacket, his glasses hanging awkwardly from one ear.
Ryland.
“Holy fucking shit,” Harold says at the exact same moment I think it.