She slammed the door on him.

That fragile little strawberry blonde, who hugged marigolds and cried when she thought of her grandfather. She'd glared at him and thrown her entire body weight against the door. The retinal scanner did not unlock it again. She must have thrown the deadbolt.

He banged the door and called her name, but no answer came.

What idiot designed this place so that the watchmen could lock each other out all night? Oh, yeah. Him.

Emily had insisted on locks on the Hunara, even though it could never be breached from the outside. Sometimes the people we need to protect ourselves from most are each other.

She'd probably sympathize with Melliblue. Her beloved grandfather just died, and you tell her that you, a fellow crew member, were still as young as you were when you left the Hunara.

Either she hated him because she thought he was messing with her, or she hated him because she knew he wasn't. Why were you the only one to survive? If you, why not her grandfather?

Because he, in the end, was the wisest of us all.

The evening lights clicked on over some plants and began to hum.

He returned to the section with the orange tree. On a table in the same row were plants so ordinary that the girl showed no sign of noticing them. An aloe, a jade, a spider plant.

He dropped to the floor and slid under the table. Lying on his back, he closed his eyes. It was hard and cold, but the smell of greenness and earth was a comfort. The spiky tendrils of the spider plant extended like a tablecloth, brushing his face gently below.

Like Emily's touch, which he'd never felt.

People had assumed that Nigel and Emily were a couple from their constant bickering. But privately Emily had treated him more as a kid brother--as much as he'd wished otherwise.

He complained that, despite his reputation, he'd never found actual love. Hint, hint. But Emily had only smiled.

"A snappy comeback and a handsome face are good fun, sure. But when you're thinking about someone to grow old with..."

She'd tousled his hair, irritatingly. "...you need to stop performing for them. Just be real."

Fifty years later, Melliblue was the same way. Friendly and smart and vulnerable--until she locked him out.

Hey, Em, Eustace. There's not much time left. How do I convince your little princess to do what only she can do?

He yawned and pillowed his head under his arms. He'd let her cool off tonight. Tomorrow he'd take her to see the suns rise over the daisy room. Watch the flowers open, maybe play his flute and feed her some Golganor chocolate, the expensive kind. Talk to her in that real smooth slow drawl of his.

He could hardly be real with her, after all. Because real was dead: what he should have been years ago.