1

Five Years Earlier, February 1997

There was something vaguely menacing about the folders. Off-white and three-ringed, row upon row, rising up the skyscraper-like corrugated-metal shelving units that obscured all four walls of the cramped, nearly windowless first-floor room. It wasn’t the folders’ color that was the problem, exactly; a shade that couldn’t be found in nature, even in a place as abundantly natural as Salt Lake City, Utah. Nor was it the black block lettering that ran up the spine of each folder, declaring the contents in language a third grader could understand. It was the idea behind the manila metropolis itself. What the folders represented: a literal way station on the search for the meaning of life.

Maybe not the meaning of life—but certainly its direction. Thad Roberts stood in front of one of the towering shelving units, his hands nervously jammed into the deep pockets of his green, oversized Windbreaker. His windswept, free-form mop of light brown hair cast tangled shadows down across his high cheekbones. He supposed that such a room existed in cities all over the country—maybe all over the world. Probably every university campus had a place like this. No doubt, many were more glamorous than the rectangular, folder-filled box that was the career center of the University of Utah, but the essence of the place was quite probably duplicated all over the globe. A mildly terrifying place where lost souls gathered to seek a future, or at least the sort of future that could be summed up between the covers of a shiny three-ring folder.

It was barely ten minutes past seven in the evening, but Thad was already swaying in his mud-scuffed Timberland boots as he surveyed the shelves, for what had to be the hundredth time. He had been in the career center two hours already, and by now he was approaching the damn folders almost at random. He’d pulled a half dozen of the folders off the shelves, piling them on one of the small wooden desks that lined the interior of the room behind him: Financial Adviser, Geologist, Air Traffic Controller, Physical Therapist. None of the choices sang to him, and he was truly close to the breaking point. He was fighting the urge to start sweeping the rest of the folders off the shelves with both hands. Close his eyes, make do with whatever landed on top of the pile.

Roll the dice, get a life.

He blinked, hard, trying to push the bleariness out of his normally brightly lit, citrine-green eyes. Or maybe it was time to just give up. He’d been at this way too long. And he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what he was going to do with himself.

At twenty, he was drowning in student debt, even though he hadn’t even fully graduated from the university, leaving early to take on multiple jobs just to survive. That day, he’d been up since four A.M., spending most of the past fifteen hours running around a backwoods construction site, basically a glorified gofer. He had about three hundred dollars in his bank account: the Windbreaker and boots he was wearing were three years old, and the shirt beneath his Windbreaker was held together by multiple assaults with a needle and thread, courtesy of Sonya, his beautiful but equally broke wife. He had no money, and certainly no safety net: he hadn’t spoken to his parents in more than a year, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to speak to them ever again. In fact, by their own admission, Thad didn’t really have parents anymore.

Instead, what he had was in front of him, a skyscraper-high bookshelf lined with three-ring folders.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He’d always been a stellar student, acing courses in everything from business to philosophy. While he was growing up, everyone had always told him how smart he was, and though some bad breaks had derailed him, he knew that he had the capability to learn. Wasn’t that supposed to be the most important thing?

He pushed the hair away from in front of his eyes and turned back toward the very first row of folders. As tired as he felt, he decided he would start over and go through them all again.

To his surprise, almost immediately one of the labels caught his eye, about five folders in from the beginning of the shelf. It was a folder Thad had paused at when he’d first walked into the career center, but he hadn’t yet pulled it out. He’d discounted it before, because he’d thought it was ridiculous, and probably way out of his reach. But now, a couple of hours later, his inhibitions were dwindling.

He reached for the folder and reread the block letters.

ASTRONAUT.

That there was even a job folder for such a career seemed improbable. Thad had initially skipped over it because he was pretty sure you had to be in the air force to even consider being an astronaut—but at this point, he figured it couldn’t hurt to look. After all, he did love the sky. One of the first things he’d done when he’d arrived at the U of U was to visit the school’s observatory, and he’d dropped by the small hilltop facility a few times since, usually when he needed space to think. Literally.

He began to leaf through the folder. To his surprise, it was divided into two parts: Pilots and Mission Specialists. The pilots were almost exclusively military, because they were the ones who flew the equipment. But the mission specialists could come from a variety of fields. These were the people who got their feet dirty, who went out into the different environments and conducted experiments. Thad figured that during moon landings, the two guys who walked around hitting golf balls were mission specialists. The guy who stayed behind in the spacecraft was the pilot. Thad wondered how jealous that would make you, going all the way to the moon but never getting to step outside. If Thad were an astronaut, he wanted to be the guy who walked on the moon.

As he read deeper into the file, he felt his mind snapping into focus. He realized right away that if he really was going to do this—and it was a crazy thought, but still—he’d have to go back to school. He’d have to get a degree in something that NASA would be interested in. Biology, astrophysics, maybe geology. He would also have to gain expertise in a variety of other endeavors. Scuba, because the astronauts trained underwater. Languages, because space was international now, and there would be plenty of exchanges of people and machinery. A pilot’s license—even though he wouldn’t be able to compete with the military kids, he’d need to know how to fly.

It all seemed so fascinating, so romantic. Growing up, he’d never really dreamed about the stars—he was too young to remember anything significant about the first steps on the moon. But he was instantly engaged by the idea because it seemed to fit him in so many ways. He was a dreamer, but he knew how to get dirty. He wanted to learn all these things—scuba, flying, Russian—and here was a reason to do it all.

Shit, who wouldn’t want to walk on the moon?

Of course, there was very little about the moon in the folder. The few articles about NASA’s current state seemed much more organized around another destination altogether: Mars. NASA scientists were hoping to one day launch an effort similar to the ’69 moon landing to try to get to Mars. Thad wondered what it would be like to be an astronaut on that mission. To have a chance to be the first person someplace new, someplace untouched. Someplace far away from Utah.

To be the first man on Mars.

Thad suddenly realized he wasn’t nervous anymore.

…

Legs furiously pumping, the pedals a near blur beneath his feet, his body leaning all the way forward over the handlebars, the frigid air tearing at his bare cheeks and forehead, Thad was moving so fast he could barely see the pavement flashing beneath him. He kept his eyes focused on the cone of orange light spitting out of the little headlamp attached to the front of the bike, ignoring the trees flashing by on either side, the flicker from windows hidden deep between the leaves. He took the last hill at top speed, the rubber tires skidding briefly against the iced road, and then the orange cone flashed against gravel—the driveway that led up to his rented single-bedroom home. He hit the brakes a second too late, but he was still able to take the gravel, his back tire jerking side to side. A moment later, he was clear of the bike, his boots hitting the grass of his front lawn.

The house was little more than a shack, but Sonya was waiting on the front porch, her beautiful reddish-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and her white sweater tight against her curves. Thad ran up to her and held his hands out. She grinned, pulling the bottom of her sweater up to reveal the flat plane of her toned stomach. Then she took his hands and pressed them against her warm skin, shivering as she did so. It was a cute little ritual they had developed over the past few months of living together. Maybe it was stupid and maybe it was sweet, but Thad was certain he’d remember these moments for the rest of his life.

A minute after that and they were inside. The living room was pretty bare: a few pieces of wooden furniture they had picked up at yard sales, a TV that was almost never on, a freestanding radiator that spat arcs of hissing water when it was turned too high. Thad led his wife to the couch by the TV and, sitting beside her, told her that he wanted to be an astronaut. He explained in detail what that meant, the things he would need to do and what they would have to reconfigure to make those things possible. It was going to take sacrifice, on both their parts. Sonya already had a full-time job as a dental assistant, and she had just started modeling in the evenings, had even signed with a local agency. But this would mean he would have to start school again, and take scuba and flying lessons. He would have to fill his résumé with the things that would impress scientists at NASA. It wasn’t going to be easy.

“You want to be an astronaut,” Sonya repeated, looking at him.

He half expected her to burst out laughing. Instead, she ran a hand through his tangled hair.

“Cool. I guess I’m going to need to get another job.”

2

One year earlier, astronauts, Mars, and NASA scientists had been the furthest things from Thad’s thoughts as he huddled, trembling, in the backseat of his parents’ oversized gray van, waiting for his father to murder him.

The van was parked in the driveway in front of Thad’s family’s house, a ranch-style building on the outskirts of Syracuse, Utah. Syracuse was an isolated speck of a place, nearly impossible to find on a map, a pseudo farm town—which meant that everybody there was a pseudo farmer, except for the few families that actually lived on farms. Thad’s family lived on an acre-and-a-half garden, where they grew their own vegetables, next door to a small cow pasture that provided them with just enough meat to feed Thad and his six brothers and sisters. It was a simple existence, and on paper it might even have seemed pretty and quaint. Thad hadn’t seen it that way in a very long time.

It had just started to snow outside the van’s windows, an angry whirl of gargantuan white flakes. Thad barely noticed, because he was too busy staring at his house’s front door. Any moment, he was certain his father was going to come through that door with a shotgun, march up to the van, and shoot Thad in the head.

Thad hadn’t come to the conclusion that his father was about to murder him frivolously. In fact, he was nearly certain it was about to happen. He had watched the seething anger deepen in the redness that splotched across the back of his dad’s neck the entire hour-ride home from the Salt Lake City airport. His mother, silent in the front seat next to his father, had glanced back only once during the ride, and her eyes had only confirmed the thought.

Thad believed he had finally pushed the man over the edge, and now his father was going to do what he believed was necessary.

Thad fought back tears as he stared through the thick snow, wondering if it would hurt, wondering if he’d even put up his hands or beg for forgiveness. In his opinion, his dad was a heartless man, not yet physically aggressive but maybe what he was about to do was right. Maybe that was exactly what Thad deserved.

The truth was, in the back of his mind he had expected this moment since the day he had met Sonya his freshman year of high school. A shy, nerdy kid like him had had no business going after the pretty, popular redhead—but for some reason, she had fallen for him as well. In a normal part of the world, they would have been high school sweethearts, boyfriend and girlfriend—whatever label meant holding hands in homeroom and stealing kisses beneath the bleachers at football games. In the utterly Mormon enclave where Thad had grown up, things didn’t work quite that way.

Thad’s father had forbidden him to have a girlfriend; so Thad and Sonya had concocted a charade. For three years, Thad had pretended to go on dates with all of Sonya’s friends so it would seem he had light and wholesome relationships. He had broken free from his shyness out of necessity—first as a ruse, and then for real. And without that shyness holding him back, he had given in to the impulse to do what felt natural—no matter how wrong his religion had told him it was.

The first time had been intense, tentative, explosive, and more than a little terrifying. In the back of Sonya’s father’s car, exposed skin sticking to the vinyl seats, condensation forming across the fogged-up back window, their bodies arching while their minds raced to stay ahead of their Mormon guilt.

From then on, Thad and Sonya had lived in fear. Thad believed that to his fiercely religious father, what he and Sonya had done—it was an explicit sin. Keeping the secret and the guilt pushed deeply away had been excruciatingly hard, but somehow Thad had made it to the day he had left for what was supposed to be his two-year mission—the rite of passage for every nineteen-year-old Mormon boy.

First, Thad had been sent to the MTC—the Mission Training Center—located in Provo, Utah. Dressed in the standard uniform—white button-down shirt, dark pants, sometimes a suit—Thad had found himself cut off from the rest of the world, relearning how to talk, to dress, to walk, to think—while sleeping eight teenagers to a room in a dormitory filled with bunk beds.

Almost immediately, Thad had begun to feel that he was unworthy—that the secret he was keeping was really a lie, to his family, to the church, and to God. But a little after two in the morning his third night at the MTC, he had been lying in his bunk staring at the ceiling, listening to the breathing of seven other teenagers away from their families for the first time in their lives—when suddenly a kid on the bunk directly across from him had broken the nightly silence.

“Guys, you awake? I’ve got something I gotta tell you, but you’ve got to promise you’ll never tell anybody else …”

And with that, the kid had suddenly begun a confession. Just like Thad, this kid had had sex with his girlfriend before coming to the MTC. Technically, Thad and the other kids in the bunk beds were supposed to be shocked; instead, another kid began talking—and suddenly he, too, was making the same confession. He had had sex with his girlfriend as well.

By the end of that night, every kid in that room had confessed to having sex. And for the first night in years, Thad slept without guilt. The next morning, he began to wonder if the sin of premarital sex was really as unforgivable as he had thought. Maybe, like the kid in the MTC dorm, it was something he simply needed to confess.

Before he lost the nerve, he had decided to go through with it—making an appointment with his mission president. Meeting in the man’s stark office, Thad told the man about Sonya and the sin they had committed. He had truly believed he’d get sympathy at the very least, and a path to the penance he needed.

But the penance wasn’t offered; instead, the president had immediately called together the church quorum necessary to kick Thad off his mission—effectively, branding him a sinner in front of the entire Mormon world. The very words the man used would reverberate in Thad’s mind the rest of his life.

“You are no longer worthy to serve God.”

He had been sent home the next day.

And now here he was: sitting in his parents’ van, numb to the snow and the cold. Thad considered making a run for it, but then he’d never see Sonya again, and that seemed like something worse than the shame and the embarrassment—worse, even, than a bullet from his father. So he just sat there and waited. Five minutes became ten minutes became half an hour, and soon he lost track of how long he had been in the van. The snow began to pile up, blanketing the vegetable garden and the cow pasture and even the house, turning everything a brilliant shade of white. The air in the back of the van was becoming frigid, and Thad could see his own breath freezing into little starbursts of crystal on the windowpane—but still he sat there, his mind a jittery mess.

Not until the air outside started to dim, and the snow piled so thick against the van’s windows that he could no longer see the house, did he decide that he had no choice but to follow his parents inside. Maybe his dad had decided that killing him out in the driveway was too public; this was something you had to take care of in the privacy of your own home.

Thad collected his single duffel bag—a couple more white shirts, some toiletries, a handful of copies of The Book of Mormon, and maybe a half-dozen ties—and exited the van. The snow stung his bare cheeks and neck, but he barely noticed. He crossed the front yard that led up to his house in a trancelike state.

He found his parents in the kitchen. His dad was sitting at the table, his mother next to him. Neither looked at him as he entered the room. Nobody spoke, and Thad stood for a moment just inside the doorway, listening to the melting snow drip against the porcelain-tiled floor. Then he let his duffel bag drop and took a seat across the table from his parents.

His dad glared at him, and the fury in the man’s eyes was so nearly palpable it all but knocked Thad out of his chair. His chest was heaving, but he felt like he couldn’t breathe, his stomach churned and the heat rose up his back in vicious twists that truly felt like flames. His mom was staring at her reflection in the glass table, refusing to meet his eyes. This wasn’t about his mom, anyway. It was about Thad and his father, and what had to happen next.

“Because we’re loving parents,” Thad would remember his dad saying, through clenched teeth, “we are giving you two months.”

Thad felt the air come back into his lungs. Two months? He wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it wasn’t the barrel of a shotgun. His father wasn’t going to kill him, at least not today, and that felt like a good thing.

“Two months,” his father repeated. “And these are the rules. You aren’t allowed in your old room. You aren’t allowed to have any of your old possessions. Just that duffel from your mission.”

Thad nodded. So far it wasn’t so bad. He was alive, and he was home. But his dad wasn’t finished yet.

“You will sleep in the basement. You are not to talk to any of your brothers or sisters. You can’t even look at them. No eye contact. No notes. No phone calls. No communication at all. Because you, Thad, are going to hell, and any communication you have with the rest of us will only make us go to hell, too.”

Thad opened his mouth but couldn’t find any words. It was a hard thing to hear, so explicit and out in the open. Hell, to his father, was not some arbitrary religious concept that you learned about in church; it was physically real, fiery and violent, and forever. And that was where Thad was headed.

“You will leave the house by six every morning,” his father continued, his voice even and low. “You won’t return until after ten at night. I don’t care what you do during those hours, but you will not be here. No one will know you are still living in this home. No one will talk to you, or see you, or think about you. You simply do not exist.”

Without another word, his father stood and turned his back on Thad. Thad’s mother remained at the table, staring at the glass. Thad was in the room with them, but he was alone.

He didn’t exist.

He picked up his duffel bag and headed to the door that led to the basement.

Later that evening, as he was about to take off his white shirt and climb onto the cot his father had left for him to sleep on for the next two months, he was surprised to hear footsteps on the stairs that led to the rest of the house. Even more surprising, the visitor was his mother, quietly coming down to the basement to see him.

For a brief moment, he felt that maybe everything was going to be okay—that she was coming to tell him that he was still part of the family, or possibly even give him a hug. He watched as she paused on the bottom step, looking at him. There were tears rolling down her face, and the hopefulness in him grew. She was going to give him a sign that she really did love him, that although they were treating him harshly, it was out of love.

And then a hardness came into her eyes, and she turned away as she spoke.

“When you die, are you going to blame how you turned out on me?”

With that, she headed back up the steps.

Thad stood there, watching her go.

…

Two months later, he officially moved out of the house and married Sonya. His parents were there to witness the vows, but they didn’t stay for the cutting of the cake. They spoke barely two words to congratulate Sonya and her family, and then they were out the door, on their way back home to Syracuse. Thad was no longer their burden. It was going to be up to him to make a life for himself, whether that meant working as a gofer on a construction site—or something else entirely.

Something meaningful and important.

It was solely up to him.

3

There was nothing like a two-million-year-old rock to put things in perspective.

Thad grimaced as he took the last few steps across the dimly lit storage room, the oversized plastic crate balanced precariously in his outstretched arms. The crate was much heavier than it looked; it wasn’t just one rock he was transporting through the bowels of the University of Utah Museum—the crate seemed like it was packed with a big enough collection to pave a short driveway. It was going to take hours to go through all the samples, entering the details into the computerized archive kept by the geology department—and there were two more boxes just like this one still waiting for him in the upstairs receiving closet. No doubt, he was going to be in the museum all night—which was exactly why he had volunteered for the inventory assignment. Anything to keep him from pacing the floors of his and Sonya’s living room, waiting for the sun to rise.

He reached the shelving unit on the far side of the room and heaved the crate onto one of the corrugated shelves. His shoulders burned from the effort, but it was a good sort of pain; he knew he was contributing something, even if it was just a long night of physical labor. Like the anonymous people who had donated the samples in the three crates to the university museum, he was giving something of himself to the geology department; in return, whenever he walked through the brightly lit display corridors upstairs, he would feel a sense of pride.

Although, he realized, these particular rocks would never actually make it into the displays upstairs. When he’d arrived at the museum earlier that evening, he’d been told that the samples he’d be cataloging were donated materials deemed not good enough for the collections upstairs. Though some of the rocks seemed pretty interesting to Thad—a handful of fossils and semiprecious minerals that told stories of deep time, ancient life-forms, maybe even evolution itself—the museum thought of it as mostly junk. These rocks would probably remain in this crate in the bowels of the museum far into the foreseeable future.

But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be inventoried, cataloged, and described in detail—as soon as the life returned to Thad’s shoulders. It seemed a shame—these items hidden away in a basement—but it wasn’t his decision to make. He was a volunteer, and no matter how pointless he thought it was to hide these donated fossils in a basement, he was glad to be the one getting his hands dirty for the greater good of the museum—in no small part because every minute he was in the basement, straining his muscles, was one less minute spent agonizing over the phone call that was now only hours away.

Thad felt a surge of adrenaline at the mere thought of the call, scheduled for eight A.M. He knew that if he was at home instead of in the museum basement, he really would have been burning off the soles of his shoes, circling the cordless phone on the desk in his living room. The day before, in preparation, he’d even pasted a pair of photos to the bare wall behind the desk. One showed a reasonably chiseled, crew-cutted man in his mid-thirties, smiling toward the camera, dressed in a conservative-looking suit and tie. The second photo was of a woman who appeared to be middle-aged; from the style of the picture and the discomfort in the woman’s pose, it was obvious that the shot had been culled from a college administration handbook.

No doubt the photos were probably overkill, maybe even a little psychotic—but Thad wasn’t going to take any chances, because the call really was that important. Disembodied voices made him nervous, so if he had to do the interview by phone, he was going to see the people he was talking to, even if it was in two dimensions.

Eight A.M.—crazy, that the call that could potentially change everything for him was now just a handful of hours away, because the truth was, he had spent the past two years preparing for this moment.

But that knowledge didn’t make him any less anxious. It wasn’t just any interview—and the position at the Johnson Space Center Cooperative Program wasn’t just any job. It was the first step toward reaching his goal of becoming an astronaut. Since the sixties, the JSC co-op program had been supplying NASA with talent. It had grown into an incredibly competitive and prestigious feeder to the space game; on average, there were eight hundred applicants for every fifty spots in the program, and the majority of the applicants were engineering majors from the country’s top universities. Co-ops got to spend at least three “tours” at the space center in Houston, working on projects that were directly related to the space program. Most of the co-ops went on to work at the space center, and a handful of standouts had ended up successfully entering the astronaut training program. Aside from the air force, which Thad had already ruled out, the JSC co-op program was his best—and really, only—avenue to becoming an astronaut.

No question, he had to ace the phone interview. And he had spent the past two years building himself into exactly the sort of person the JSC was looking for. Aside from a dizzying collection of physics, geology, and anthropology courses—he was majoring in all three disciplines—he’d filled his résumé with a wide array of outside accomplishments. He was the founder of the Utah Astronomical Society, and had personally built up the college’s observatory into one of the premier science clubs on campus. He was routinely doing volunteer dinosaur digs with the paleontology group, an offshoot of the geology department. He had gotten his pilot’s license and had become a certified expert in scuba diving. He’d taken Russian and Japanese. To top it all off, he’d recently completed a charity bike ride to raise money for cystic fibrosis; he and Sonya had biked all the way from the front door of the Salt Lake City hospital to San Francisco, bringing in just shy of $10,000 for the cause.

He had done everything he could to make himself the perfect candidate. Along the way, he’d fought down the gnawing sense that no matter what he did, he’d always be starting a few steps back from the other kids applying for the program; most would probably be coming from more elite schools, paid for by loving parents. Most wouldn’t already be married at twenty-three. Hell, most wouldn’t be twenty-three; they’d be college age, from middle-class backgrounds. Thad was different. He’d always be an outsider.

He’d have to work harder than everybody else to prove himself. Already, he’d shown them how persistent he could be.

He thought back to the photos attached to the wall above the desk in his living room. Bob Musgrove was the co-op program manager, responsible for all new hires. The woman in the photo next to Musgrove’s was the man’s secretary, who Thad assumed might be part of the phone interview as well. Thad had spoken to her often, and had heard Musgrove’s voice on the man’s voice-mail greeting more times than he could remember. Thad had lost count after leaving his hundredth voice-mail message—to go along with the hundreds of e-mails, dozens of letters, and even a handful of faxes to the JSC co-op fax line. None of the voice mails or e-mails had gotten him a response, but he had kept going, placing a call nearly every day.

And it had seemed to work out; four days ago, Thad had received a simple e-mail from Musgrove—as if Thad hadn’t been trying to contact the man for months—telling him when to call in for his initial phone interview. A message from the man’s secretary had confirmed the time and date, and now it was going to be up to Thad.

One simple phone call.

Thad took a deep breath—and the dust-filled, musty air of the museum basement brought him back into the moment. His heart still pounded, but thoughts of the phone call dissipated as he finally worked the stiffness out of his arms. Before heading back upstairs for the other two crates, he took a moment to peer over the top of the box he’d just settled onto the shelf. Sitting on top of the heavy pile of specimens was a jagged little piece of rock that had been given to the museum by an unnamed collector. Thad could barely make out the faint outline of some sort of fossil on the surface of the stone—maybe a prehistoric plant, maybe something better, like an insect or even a footprint. God only knew what it was—but that mystery made it even more amazing. It was a real piece of history, a step in evolution.

Yes, it sure as hell put things in perspective. Thad had been preparing for the upcoming phone interview for two years—and if he did well, if he kept his cool and said the right things, maybe he really was going to be on his way to becoming an astronaut.

That rock, on other hand, had survived two million years of erosion—to end up in a box in the dark basement of a museum.

Thad took another breath—and came to a sudden decision.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure he was alone. Then he reached into the box, grabbed the fossil, and jammed it deep into his pocket.

…

Eight hours later, Thad’s mind whirled as he leaned back at the desk in his living room—a stunned expression spreading across his face. Bob Musgrove’s words still reverberated in his ears, as surprising now as they had seemed when they’d first echoed through the cordless phone now sitting dormant in front of him:

“Well, Thad, I think you’ll be a great addition to the co-op program.”

Just like that—after only the briefest of interviews. Musgrove hadn’t asked him about his scientific background, about how he was going to compensate for the fact that he wasn’t an engineer, about his moderately advanced age—all the man had wanted to talk about was the charity bike ride; how he and Sonya had raised money for cystic fibrosis while living out of a tent, collecting blisters on desolate roads crisscrossing the country. And then Musgrove had simply sprung it on him, out of nowhere.

“Your résumé is stellar. Your grades really picked up once you started taking courses you enjoyed, and it’s obvious you know how to work hard. I’d already made the decision before I got you on the phone. You’re exactly the kind of person we look for.”

Thad couldn’t believe it. All that anxiety, that built-up adrenaline—and now it was really going to happen.

“There are two types of people who work at NASA,” Musgrove had finished cheerily. “People who are obsessed with space. And people who are about to become obsessed with space.”

With that, the man had hung up, the phone going quiet in Thad’s hand.

And that was it—Thad was on his way. He leaned back in his chair, grinning ear to ear. He was going to be a co-op at the Johnson Space Center.

Houston, we have liftoff …

4

The twelve-year-old kids in the Star Trek uniforms should have given it away. That, or the fact that the line Thad was standing in ended in a turnstile manned by a guy in a bright orange space suit. But Thad’s anxiety level was so high, his mind whirling so fast, he didn’t realize anything was wrong until the kids in the uniforms had disappeared into the building in front of him, and he was standing right up against the turnstile, staring past the orange suit into an atrium that looked way more like Disney’s Epcot Center than a working government building. There was a mock-up of the Apollo lunar lander hanging from the ceiling, and something that resembled the interior of the space shuttle jutting right out of the far wall—as if the damn thing had crashed through from the other side, embedding itself for the amusement of the throngs of children scrambling over its fuselage. Stranger still, Thad noticed multiple vending machines hawking everything from colorful space ice cream to baseball hats with the NASA emblem emblazoned across the front. He’d either taken a wrong turn on his way out of the parking lot, or NASA wasn’t the buttoned-down institution he had imagined after all.

He turned back toward the man in the orange space suit. On closer inspection, the guy couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old.

“I think I might be in the wrong place.”

“Depends where you’re trying to go,” the kid responded, barely looking at him. “You here for the zero-gravity show? Tickets are twenty bucks, but you have to get them at the ticket office.”

Thad shook his head.

“I’m not here for the zero-gravity show. I’m here for work. I mean, I’m supposed to start today. I’m in the co-op program.”

The kid in the space suit yawned.

“Uh, guy, this isn’t the Johnson Space Center. This is Space Center Houston. The JSC is next door. But you have to be authorized to get through security.”

“Shit, thanks.”

Thad quickly stepped out of line and rushed back out toward the parking lot. Christ, now he was going to be late—and on his first day. He pushed through the glass double doors and winced as the morning heat hit him full in the face; even though it was the first week of September, it still felt like an oven outside. The sky was blindingly bright and it had to be over ninety degrees. Thad pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. The shirt was white, with short sleeves, and his pants were khaki and a little too long, hanging down over his black dress shoes. He knew the shoes were entirely wrong, but they were the only pair he owned that weren’t caked in dried mud from multiple dinosaur digs and geological fieldwork. Dress shoes would have to do.