No need to direct him this time. Terrance clearly remembers the way. We all walk, Terrance leading, into the living room. We sit in the same spots as we did on his first visit—Terrance on the couch, and Hen and I in our chairs close together, across from him. Years have gone by, but what has changed? Very little here, in the house. Everything is the same.

“I’m delighted and relieved,” he says, “Overjoyed, really, that you’re both keeping—”

Tell us, I say, cutting him off. Tell us the news. That’s why you’re here.

Hen is calm. She doesn’t react to my voice. She doesn’t even look up.

Terrance smiles. “Of course.” He pauses, sits up straighter. “Junior has made the short list.” He waits for this to sink in. He wants it to appear natural, but I’m sure that’s part of his protocol, that he’s instructed to include these dramatic pauses when he shares the news. He looks at me expectantly. Then to Hen, with a different look, one I can’t interpret. “I’m thrilled,” he says. “I couldn’t be more excited. You’re another significant step closer to going to space!”

Hen and I look at each other. She brings her hands up to her head, runs them through her hair. She doesn’t look startled but drained.

“So he’s going for sure?” she asks.

“No, not necessarily,” he says. “But he’s on the short list, so the chances are much greater now.”

Hen puts her hand on mine. Again—unusual. It must be for his benefit.

“What are the timelines?” she asks.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Terrance says. “Nothing’s guaranteed, but the ultimate fantasy is closer to becoming a reality.”

Whose ultimate fantasy? I wonder.

But then, this doesn’t really change anything for us, does it? I say. It’s like before: we’re still in limbo.

“Yes. I know that might be distressing. I get it. The future is not concrete one way or the other, but I think making the short list does change things,” he says. “We have progressed in the right direction. I feel bad for those others who didn’t make it. Going forward, we, the three of us, have to focus on the facts, on what’s real, not on hypotheticals. This is a significant development. We have a lot to discuss. This visit will be a bit more extensive than the last. It’s normal, of course, to have questions. We’ll get to that.”

I’ve lowered my head. I’m rubbing my closed eyes. I feel Hen’s hand squeeze my leg.

“Guys, come on! This is exciting!” Terrance says. “We have a mandate, a plan for moving forward with everyone on this list. I can assure you, we’re not just making this up as we go.”

How are we not supposed to think about hypotheticals? I mean, why tell us? I ask. When there’s still only a chance of this happening. We don’t know anything for sure. So what’s the point?

He raises his hands, defensively, nodding his head.

“No, I get it. I do. Really. I know the time between now and my last visit must have felt . . . unusual.”

He directs this last word to Hen.

“But I have a question for you,” he says. “And it’s something I’d like you both to think about: Do you want to live normal, mundane, average lives? Is that really your ambition?”

Hen sits up, listening closer to what he’s saying.

“Do you want to be indistinguishable from everyone else? Or do you want to be part of something special and unique? And that, more than anything, is what this is about,” he says. “A chance to be a better version of yourself.”

The focus has clearly shifted to Hen. It’s like all of a sudden I’m not even in the room.

“You can make it all sound pretty good, Terrance,” Hen says. “A better version of yourself.”

We haven’t asked for any of this, I say.

“No, you’re right, you haven’t. You’ve been presented with a rare opportunity that, at the moment, remains unresolved. But why is the unknown a burden? It doesn’t have to be. It can just as easily be the opposite—a kind of awakening to feel something. I don’t just mean the Installation. Even before that. This is a chance to be taken out of your daily, weekly, monthly, yearly routine, regardless of the final outcome. Again . . .” He looks at Hen. Why, why is he fixating so much on her? “This is for both you. It’s a chance to wake up. How many people live day to day in a kind of haze, moving from one thing to the next without ever feeling anything? Being busy without ever being absorbed or excited or renewed? Most people don’t ever think about the full range of achievable existence; they just don’t. This is something we’ve been working on at OuterMore. You could say it’s a company philosophy. Our moral grounding. It’s the idea that a true, righteous existence is always achievable, for anyone.”

Existence is achievable? I say.

“Existence is achievable! Yes, Junior. You shape your existence through decisions, perceptions, and behavior. It’s our company philosophy at OuterMore. Habitual, comfortable activity is the worst kind of prison, because the bars are concealed. You can never learn anything that way. We want people to learn things, not just about new environments but about themselves. Maintaining the status quo is not what being a modern human should be about. This is bigger than the Installation. Do you see what I’m saying? This is what I’m offering you both. An awakening.”

“Is this what they tell you to say?” Hen asks. “Because you may as well save your breath.”

I can tell she means it. Hen’s not one to be resistant by nature. She’s not happy about any of this.

“No one tells me what to say. Know that I’ve been thinking about all of this for a lot longer than you guys. I like you. Both of you. I really do. I want you both to feel in control. I just think you’re looking at this the wrong way. And I’m trying to help. That’s my job. This has been my life longer than you’ve been aware of it. It’s not just a job but an obsession, a mission I believe in wholeheartedly.”

This doesn’t affect you, though, does it? I say. Not like it does us. We’re the ones in the fishbowl.

Hen turns to me, surprised by my comment, her eyes searching mine.

“It doesn’t affect me in the same way, no, of course not. But this venture . . . it’s just as big a part of my life as it is yours. This will define my whole career. You’re in the fishbowl, yes. But so am I! We’re in it together.”

“So what happens next?” Hen asks. “Do we get to know anything else today? Are you going to give us anything else?”

Gone is the nervous energy I felt during Terrance’s first visit, an energy that stayed in the house for weeks after. Hen’s body language—hunched shoulders and feet crossed at the ankles, look to me this time like acceptance.

“I’m going to have to talk with both of you, extensively. There are a series of steps that we’ll have to get through.”

Steps? What kind of steps? I ask.

“Think of them as interviews,” Terrance says. “These will help us, and you, prepare for all potential outcomes.”

“When?” Hen demands.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Terrance says. “I don’t want to inundate you tonight. Just getting the good news is enough for one day. I will maybe trouble you for a glass of water before I leave, though, if that’s okay?”

Hen and I look at each other. She stands up and walks out of the room.

Once she’s gone, Terrance takes his screen out of his case. He starts taking notes, or writing a message to someone. Then he holds his screen up, aiming it at various parts of the room.

He’s taking photos. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing.

“Don’t mind me,” he says. “I’m just collecting some data. Don’t worry. It’s all part of the process. Can you look at me for a second?”

I look at him square in the face. He aims his screen at me.

Click.

It happens before I can stop him.

“Thank you,” he says. “Now, before she gets back, I have a few quick questions. You know, like, man-to-man. What has Hen told you, Junior? Be honest. It’s in all of our best interests if you tell me the truth.”

What does he mean? I have no idea what he’s implying. Hen and I don’t keep secrets from each other.

Told me? Told me about what? I ask. What do you mean?

Before I can say anything else, Hen returns with his water and sets it down in front of him.

“Ah, yes, great,” he says. “Thank you, Henrietta. I remember how good and cold your well water is from last time.”

He drinks the entire glass of water, all of it, in one go.

“I can’t help but wonder,” he says, then turns to me. “I can’t help but wonder, Junior, if you ever think back to your life before.”

Before what? I ask.

“Before Hen,” he says.