He closes his eyes, taking in another lungful of clean air. Opens his eyes to look up at the unfamiliar stars scattered above them.

No. Not unfamiliar. He can pick out a few that were on the mural above Dejah's bed, bright specks here and there that align with the shapes of Helium's constellations. It's like seeing grass for the first time in almost two decades: I know this, and I never thought I would see this so soon.

So much open sky. It used to feel like a weight bearing down on him. When did that change?

It's beautiful, he plans to say, and what comes out instead is a waterlogged, "Thank you."