I’d never have given my mother a cake of rosin as a present. I was the violinist, not her. I had given her a porcelain pig once, though, and she’d been the one to give me a tapestry fragment. I’d set it up as a test, a mix of truth and plausible lies to see if we really were getting live information from mission control. What I was expecting to find out, I don’t know. But, given my coma and the ship’s unexplained damages, the answer was coming to feel life or death.
Good be suspicious. Suspicious is good
