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concrete below, breaking his ulna in the process. After that the seminar center instituted a minimum age limit to participate, and Ducky’s folks didn’t let Dad plan any more trips until we were in high school.
    “Don’t worry, Donald,” my Dad reassures Ducky. “I doubt you’d survive using a gliding cape from this high up.”
    Dad sure knows how to make a guy feel better.
    We make it to the satellite station without any mishaps or adventures, besides some world-class ralphing by Ducky, who finally can’t contain it any longer. No one seems to have much to say, shockingly enough. Even baby Olivia has cried herself back to sleep. I stare out the window at the blackness and the stars. I can see the Earth, kilometers below. A blue-green orb. And even though I’ve seen almost this exact same view so many times before, when I was circling the planet on the Echidna , this time it feels a lot different. Like, even though I’m about to go right back down, in another very real way, I’ve left the planet forever.
    Antarctica. The Bottom of the Earth. They might as well cut this elevator cable and send us all floating out into the void.
    All that’s left is to settle in for our half-day orbit toward the South Pole. And Ducky, apparently, has decided to use the entire twelve hours to puke on stuff.
    “Ducky, these were my best sneaks,” I say, stepping out of the vomit that he just deposited at my feet.
    “Sorry,” Ducky whimpers, wiping his mouth. His handsare trembling, and he’s turned an even whiter shade of pale, if that’s possible. Guess he puked all the green out of his face. He really does look pathetic, crouched on the floor. “I’ll get you some new ones.”
    “You reckoning on there being a Foot Locker in Antarctica?” I say.
    Ducky lets out a low moan. I take a few steps back, just in case, but reach out my baby-free arm and rub his back in little circles. Cole keeps actively looking in any direction other than Ducky’s. Seems like my Almiri baby-daddy has a pretty loose gag reflex.
    “I think your motion sickness may be psychosomatic, Donald,” Dad says, in what I can only assume is an attempt to be helpful. “After all, these transports are incredibly smooth. There should be no distress put on the inner ear, even one as sensitive as yours.”
    “Maybe I should find a . . . ,” Ducky begins, before pausing to retch on my left foot—completing the matching set. “. . . good hypnotist while we’re in Antarctica,” he finishes. “But I’d bet that it’s more the rocketing through the atmosphere than my mind that’s doing it, Mr. Nara.”
    “There are no rockets on the Fountain , Donald,” Dad replies, missing the point as only a science nerd can. “That’s the most spectacular thing about it. We’ve harnessed the power of the Earth’s gravitational pull to create near-perpetual motion without the use of conventional rockets or fuel. The theory is revolutionary, really.”
    Ducky’s rebuttal splatters all over the floor, which at least temporarily quiets Dad. Even Alan and the other guards havemoved away from us in disgust. I look over at them with a contemptuous glare.
    “Could you, like, get us a towel or something?” I ask. Alan, the tension almost visibly building in his neck muscles, doesn’t bother to respond to me, but motions to his buddies, who wander off down the corridor with him.
    I leave Dad to tend to Ducky and walk over to the window with Olivia. The last thing I want is for this madhouse puke-fest to wake her from the first real nap she’s decided to take all day. “Don’t worry,” I whisper into her ear as I lean up against the window. The glass is cool, comforting. “I’ll find you something to eat soon, I promise.” She nestles her little mini-melon head farther into the crook of my neck, and I rub the ridges on the back of her head with my thumb, studying her perfect microscopic features.
    Maybe I really could get used to this whole mom