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Eva Stratt knows how to read lips. It’s an important skill to have when swapping rapid-fire between languages, or seven people need to talk to you at once and none of them can wait.
So she knows what Grace is asking her, even if she can’t hear it.
She’s hearing many things: sirens, radios, the shouts of firefighters. They’re too far away to hear the blaze, but it lights up the sky like sunrise despite it being four in the afternoon.
Dozens reported dead and the number is climbing. The paramedics have more body bags than stretchers. Eva watches them pass, counts them in her head as she fields phone calls and questions. Grace catches some of them before they get to her. He keeps looking at her and Eva does not look back.
They don’t have confirmation yet, but Eva doesn’t need it. She’s seven steps deep into her contingency plan, because its need is more likely by the second. If a miracle occurs and DuBois or Shapiro survive, they would need another miracle for either of them to be ready for launch. It was obvious the epicenter was in the middle of the complex, and the middle of the complex is where the laboratories were. Past tense, because all that's left is rubble and the outline of a foundation. And bits of paper falling from the sky like snowflakes.
Grace asks her something, and she answers the phone. No introduction is needed. She knows what the person is going to say.
Two of the most important people in the world are dead.
She’s sitting in the back of an ambulance. An abundance of caution. Physically, she’s fine. A bruised elbow and ringing ears from the blast. But the bumper gives her a place to put her laptop and the paramedics have a charging station.
This could have been prevented. This should have been prevented. Tonight she will seethe and replay in her head every moment that led to this outcome. A million discrete decisions. Spread over years and people, but ultimately on her shoulders. An average weighed heavily in her favor, because she had both of her hands on the scale. That was the fact of the matter.
This was her responsibility. Her failure.
“Stratt?”
Two of the most important people in the world are dead, and the third is standing in front of her. The fire illuminates Grace from behind, cutting his silhouette against the horizon, outlining the rims of his glasses. He's still wearing that sun-yellow rain coat. It's four in the afternoon.
Her worst case scenario. Not the world’s. The world will be dancing with worst case scenarios for the next thirty years. Right now, Eva is staring down the barrel of hers.
“Eva?”
They cannot fail the planet, that's non-negotiable. She cannot look at Grace, because finding comfort in him now would be its own failure.
“Are you okay?”
No. No, she’s not. But,
“Do not worry about me.”
This isn't about her. It never was.
The vehicle’s suspension bobs with Grace’s weight. She smells the soot from him – not on him, but permeating the air disturbed by his sitting. He hangs his glasses from one ear.
“I can't believe this is happening,” Grace says. He runs a hand down his face, knocking his glasses—
—Into Eva’s hand. She was reaching for them before they fell, before she could stop herself. The frames are bent beyond what most would consider functional. They didn't start the day like that. They must have been broken when they fell.
Grace almost smiles as he takes them back from her. “Thanks.”
“What is your prescription?” Eva asks.
“My—what, my glasses?”
“I already know your other prescriptions, Doctor Grace.”
Grace almost laughs. “Don't tell me that. But, I don't know. One of the numbers has a seven in it, I think.”
“Send it to me.”
“What, right now?”
“Yes.”
“Don't we have more important things to—”
“No. Find it and send it to me.”
Grace squints at her, then at his phone. Two men walk with purpose towards them, but a look from Eva sends them away.
She needs his prescription so she can use the Hail Mary’s emergency mass margin to account for several pairs of glasses. Among other things. So, no distractions.
And she uses the time to study the profile of his face. He says something. Not to her, specifically, but to fill the space between them. Eva doesn't hear the words, but she memorizes the sound.