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question thana statement. I remembered him there, of course, on the night of her funeral.
    “Alyana was . . .” He stumbled over his words and was able to recover only after swallowing hard. “A dear friend of mine.”
    I wasn’t sure what to say. I nodded.
    “She would be so proud. I’m sure you’ll be able to do great things as a botanist,” he offered at last. I gave my shoulders a shrug, clutching my bag in front of me like my life depended on it. I hadn’t given any thought to my new vocation. I wasn’t sure what a botanist even did.
    “How, planting flowers?”
    “Perhaps.” He gave a grin. His teeth were yellow and crooked. When I didn’t smile back, he added: “I think you’ll be truly working toward tikkun olam . Are you familiar with the term?”
    I let out a snort. “It’s all Abba—I mean, it’s all my father ever talks about.”
    “Duty always was important to Arran,” Mar Jacobi said. He leaned back on his heels, staring up at the lights set into the ceiling. “But you know, Terra, there are many ways to do your duty, to work toward carving out a place in the universe for humanity.”
    “Are there?” I glanced down at the polished floor. There was something hungry about his voice, like he’d been waiting for this conversation for a long time. I didn’t like the intensity behind it. It made my cheeks warm.
    “Well,” he said, “when our ancestors left Earth, they thought they were saving mankind. The Council will tell you that the way to fulfill that mission is to do your duty, to work hard and marry and raise happy children and obey the captain.”
    Behind him the door dinged open, revealing a fury of green, tangled space. A rush of air wafted in, perfumed by the clover from the pastures and the wildflowers from the forests below. Neither of us moved.
    “Yes,” I said sourly, “I know. They taught us that in school. How we have to do mitzvot for the good of the ship or it’ll fall out of space or something.”
    Mar Jacobi’s eyebrow ticked up. He was looking at me closely now, the pupils in his brown eyes shrinking down to pinpricks. “I used to talk about tikkun olam with your mother. She always thought there were other ways. Alyana said we needed to protect our liberties, too. Otherwise mankind was never worth saving.”
    “What do you mean, ‘our liberties’?”
    Mar Jacobi stepped aside, offering the open door to me. After a moment I stepped through. “I’d be happy to discuss it with you sometime. If you’ll stop by the library, I could give you some books to read. I’m sure it would do your mother proud to know that you’re considering what’s truly necessary to work tikkun olam .”
    My lips tightening into a frown, I trudged past him. “All right,” I said. But I felt uneasy as I walked out into the dome.
    The librarian only waved a hand at me. “Mazel tov, Terra,” he offered. I saw him press his hand to the button, and then I watched as the door slid shut again.
    “Thanks,” I mumbled in return. But a thin birdsong was the only thing that answered.
    •  •  •
    I found a mossy incline spread out between a pair of trees. The artificial daylight was feeble, spotty; the ground muddy from the latest rain. Everything seemed cool and brown. But near my feet there was a flash of purple: a crocus head pushing up between the gravel. As I fumbled for my pencils, I gave the flower a wistful smile.
    A spring flower , I thought. But it won’t last long. Spring will be short this year.
    I turned to a blank page near the back of my book and ran my hand over its bumpy surface. When I first started drawing, I tried to draw people: Ronen and Rachel, my father. Momma. But in the dim light of my room, their faces looked all wrong—the eyes uneven, the mouths too wide. So I’d given up on that. It was only away from home, in this solitary space, that I had begun to look—really look—at the flowers and branches in front of me. Now my hands and my pencils