Rina wakes before the bell. Always does. Anna’s face is fifteen centimeters away on the shared pillow, mouth slightly open, one hand curled near her chin. Rina counts the breaths. Seventeen per minute. Yesterday was fifteen. The day before was fourteen.
The wake bell sounds at 0400. Anna’s eyes open, find Rina’s immediately.
“Kumusta ka?” How are you?
“Mabuti.” Fine.
Anna sits up, winces when she stretches overhead. Rina sees it. Anna sees Rina see it. Neither speaks.
In the head, Anna uses the toilet first. Rina waits outside, counting seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Flush. Anna emerges, doesn’t meet Rina’s eyes. Rina goes in after. The water in the bowl is still dark. Darker than yesterday. Rina flushes again before she uses it.
Mess hall at 0430. The breakfast porridge tastes like wet cardboard with a metallic edge. Rina saves her protein bar, slides it across to Anna. Anna saves her fruit cup, slides it to Rina. Four months ago they negotiated this. Now their hands move without thinking.
Anna unwraps the bar, takes a bite. Chews slowly. Rina watches her throat work when she swallows.
“You don’t have to,” Anna says quietly.
“Ayaw mo ba?” You don’t want it?
“Hindi.” No. A pause. “Salamat.” Thank you.
The rotation board shows agricultural assignment for their cohort. Section 7-B, soil prep. Anna’s wristband vibrates—medical alert, soft pulse against her skin. High-risk flagged. Should avoid black soil. Should tell the supervisor. Should get reassigned.
Anna stands up. Rina follows.
Section 7-B greenhouse smells like earth. Real earth, Anna calls it, though neither of them has been to Earth. Black soil in transfer bins, waiting to move to the growing beds. White soil in the corner—clay-synthetic, safe.
Rotation Supervisor Kwan checks his tablet. “Santos, you’re flagged. White soil only.”
“Yes, po.” The po means respect. Means compliance.
Kwan moves down the line, assigning others. Anna stands at the white soil station. Rina stands next to her. They’re supposed to be at separate stations—more efficient that way, Kwan says—but he stopped separating them months ago. Easier to let them work together. Less trouble.
Anna fills bags with white soil. Steady, mechanical. Rina watches her hands. Watches the way Anna grips the scoop. Tighter than usual. Her knuckles whiter.
Across the greenhouse, someone calls for help with the black soil bins—too heavy, need an extra person. Kwan is at the other end, checking someone’s technique. Anna looks at Rina. Rina looks at Anna.
Anna walks over to the black soil.
Rina could call out. Could tell Kwan. Could grab Anna’s arm. Stays quiet instead. Watches Anna reach into the bin barehanded—gloves are in the locker, locker is thirty meters back, this will only take a minute—and scoop the dark earth into a new container.
Particles stick under Anna’s fingernails. Dust settles on her palms. She finishes quickly, wipes her hands on her jumpsuit, walks back. Passes Rina without looking.
At the sink, Anna scrubs her hands. Hot water, soap, scrubs until the skin goes red. Rina stands close enough to feel the heat coming off the water. Anna’s wristband vibrates—credit earned for task completion. Rina’s band stays silent. She stood watching. Didn’t work.
Anna holds out her wrist. Rina holds out hers. Three seconds of contact transfers the credit. Their fingers touch. Anna’s hand is hot from the water, slightly damp.
“You didn’t have to,” Rina says.
“Gusto ko.” I wanted to.
That night, Rina lies awake. Anna is asleep beside her, breathing steady but too fast. Eighteen per minute now. Rina can see the rise and fall of her chest in the dim emergency lighting.
In the head earlier, the water was almost black.
Rina knows what she should do. Report the exposure. Report the symptoms. Medical will take Anna to R7 for observation. Seventy-two hours minimum. Three days alone in isolation while they run blood panels, monitor for crisis, decide if it’s progressing.
Maybe nothing happens. Maybe the exposure was small enough. Maybe Anna’s enzyme levels hold. Maybe she comes back in three days with a warning and a closer watch.
Maybe.
Rina calculates: report now, lose Anna to isolation, maybe get her back.
Stay quiet, keep her close, maybe lose her forever.
The math is the same. The variables are different.
Anna’s hand finds Rina’s in sleep. Rina holds it. Counts the breaths. Nineteen now.
She closes her eyes.
Day two. Anna moves slower. Takes longer to dress, longer to eat. Doesn’t finish her protein bar. Rina wraps it, saves it for later.
“Not hungry,” Anna says.
“Mamaya.” Later.
Agricultural rotation again. Kwan assigns them to greenhouse maintenance—checking soil pH, no heavy work. Anna kneels at a growing bed, uses the tester, writes numbers on the datapad. Her hand shakes slightly. Rina kneels beside her, pretends not to notice.
At lunch, Anna’s wristband shows gold rank—top earner this week. Rina’s is silver. Last week Rina was gold. The week before, they were both bronze. It doesn’t matter. Used to matter. Doesn’t now.
“You should eat something,” Rina says.
“Later.”
“Now.”
Anna takes a bite of rice porridge. Chews. Swallows. Takes another. Rina watches her throat work. Third bite, Anna stops, puts the bowl down.
“Can’t.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence. Around them, other children trade food, argue over kubo credits, plan how to climb the ladder. Rina used to care about the ladder. Used to think gold band meant something. Now she looks at Anna’s gold band and thinks: colored plastic on a locked bracelet.
Day three. Anna doesn’t get out of bed when the bell rings.
“Tara na,” Rina says quietly. Come on.
“Saglit.” One moment.
Anna sits up slowly. Swings her legs over the edge of the bunk. Sits there, breathing. Twenty-two per minute. Rina counts without meaning to.
In the head, Anna uses the toilet. Rina doesn’t look at the water but she knows. She can smell it. Sharp, wrong.
Mess hall. Anna doesn’t eat. Rina doesn’t eat. They sit together at the end of the table.
“You have to tell them,” Rina whispers.
“Not yet.”
“Anna—”
“Not yet.”
Rotation Supervisor Kwan looks at them across the hall. Frowns. Walks over.
“Santos. You sick?”
“No, po.”
“You look sick.”
“Just tired, po.”
Kwan checks his tablet. “Your medical flag is still active. When was your last panel?”
“Two weeks ago, po.”
“You’re due for another. Report to medical after rotation.”
“Yes, po.”
Kwan walks away. Anna looks at Rina.
“I have to go,” Anna says.
“I know.”
“They’ll keep me if—”
“I know.”
Anna reaches across the table. Rina takes her hand. They sit like that until the rotation bell rings.
Medical is three corridors over. Rina walks with Anna until Nurse Chen stops her at the door.
“Family only during examination.”
“She’s my bunkmate.”
“Family only.”
Anna squeezes Rina’s hand once. Lets go. Goes inside.
Rina waits in the corridor. Counts floor tiles. Thirty-seven from the door to the corner. Counts ceiling panels. Twenty-two. Counts her breaths. Fourteen per minute. Too slow. Tries to speed up. Can’t.
Forty minutes later, Anna comes out. Two medical staff follow her. Nurse Chen and someone Rina doesn’t recognize. They’re walking on either side of Anna, not touching her but close. Anna’s face is blank.
“Rotation Seven,” Nurse Chen says. Not to Anna. To the other nurse. “Immediate isolation.”
Rina steps forward. Chen puts a hand up.
“You can’t—” Rina starts.
“Contact protocol. No proximity to flagged patients.”
“She’s my bunkmate—”
“Not anymore. Effective immediately. Collect your things from quarters. Reassignment in six hours.”
They walk Anna down the corridor. Anna looks back once. Her eyes find Rina’s. Rina can’t read her expression. Can’t read anything except: I’m sorry.
Then they turn the corner and she’s gone.
Rina goes back to quarters. The room is too big now. Anna’s bunk is still unmade. Her locker is still open. Inside: three photos from her parents orbital, a salvaged toy from Earth (a small wooden bird, painted blue), a stack of letters, a drawing Rina made of the greenhouse.
Rina sits on Anna’s bunk. The sheets still smell like her—sweat and soap and that metallic greenhouse smell that never quite washes out.
Six hours until reassignment. Six hours alone in a room built for two.
Rina lies down on Anna’s bunk. Counts ceiling panels. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine if you count the half-panel by the door. Counts the breaths she would count if Anna were here. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Gets up. Can’t stay still.
Goes to mess hall. It’s empty between rotations. The kubo board is posted on the wall—rankings updated daily, gold names at the top. Anna’s name is first. Rina’s name is seventh.
Rina looks at the board for a long time.
Then she walks to Supervisor Kwan’s office. Knocks.
“Come.”
She opens the door. Kwan is at his desk, filling out forms on his tablet.
“Reyes. What do you need?”
“I want to drop my credits.”
Kwan looks up. “Say again?”
“All of them. Give them to someone else. Anyone.”
“You can’t drop below threshold. You’ll lose privileges.”
“Okay.”
“You won’t get meal supplements. No comm extensions. No choice of work assignment.”
“Okay.”
Kwan sets down his tablet. “Why?”
Rina doesn’t know how to explain it. Doesn’t know how to say: the ladder is a lie, the credits are fake, the rankings don’t mean anything when someone you love is dying three corridors away.
Says instead: “I don’t want them anymore.”
Kwan studies her. Then picks up his tablet, makes a few taps. “Done. You’re at baseline. White band by tomorrow.”
“Salamat, po.”
Rina walks back to quarters. Lies on Anna’s bunk. Counts ceiling panels again. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine if you count the half-panel.
Waits.
Day four, Anna is still in R7. Rina doesn’t see her. No visitors allowed during observation.
Day five, Rina’s new bunkmate arrives. A girl named Maya, nine years old, just transferred from Dome 11. She’s shy, polite, doesn’t ask why Rina’s old bunkmate left. Rina doesn’t explain.
Day six, Nurse Chen comes to find Rina during agricultural rotation.
“Reyes. Medical wants to see you.”
Rina’s stomach drops. “Is she—”
“Just come.”
They walk to medical in silence. Chen leads her past the main ward, down a corridor Rina has never been in, to a door marked R7. Chen swipes her card. The door opens.
Inside, Anna is lying in a bed. Her skin is yellow. Her eyes are closed. An IV runs into her arm. A machine beeps steadily beside her.
“Ten minutes,” Chen says. “Don’t touch her.”
Rina sits in the chair beside the bed. Doesn’t touch. Watches Anna’s chest rise and fall. Counts. Twenty-four per minute.
Anna’s eyes open slowly. Find Rina’s.
“Hi,” Anna whispers.
“Hi.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Chen let me.”
Anna tries to smile. It doesn’t quite work. “What did you trade for that?”
“Nothing.” A pause. “Everything.”
Anna’s eyes drift to Rina’s wrist. The white band. “You dropped.”
“Didn’t need it.”
“Rina—”
“I didn’t need it.”
Anna’s hand moves slightly on the bed. Rina wants to take it. Doesn’t.
“They’re sending me orbital,” Anna says quietly. “Tomorrow. Kidney failure. Need dialysis. Can’t do it here.”
Rina already knew. Knew from the yellow skin, the machine, the way Chen looked at her in the corridor. Knew and didn’t want to know.
“Will you come back?”
Anna doesn’t answer right away. Then: “Hindi.” No.
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
They sit in silence. The machine beeps. Twenty-four per minute. Twenty-five.
“I’m sorry,” Anna whispers.
“For what?”
“The soil. I knew. I knew and I did it anyway.”
“I know.”
“You should have told.”
“I know.”
Anna closes her eyes. “Would you have?”
Rina thinks about it. Really thinks. About the three days together. About the dark water in the toilet. About the choice between three days close and maybe forever apart.
“Hindi,” she says. No.
Anna’s eyes open again. “Why?”
“Because you were real,” Rina says. “Because you were the only real thing here.”
Anna’s hand moves again. Rina takes it this time. Chen said don’t touch but Rina doesn’t care. Anna’s hand is cold. Rina holds it anyway.
“Time’s up,” Chen says from the doorway.
Rina stands. Doesn’t let go of Anna’s hand.
“Reyes,” Chen says, firmer.
Rina squeezes once. Lets go.
At the door, she looks back. Anna is watching her.
“Mahal kita,” Rina says. I love you.
“Mahal din kita,” Anna whispers. I love you too.
Chen closes the door.
The next day, Anna is gone. Rotated orbital. Rina doesn’t watch the shuttle launch. Stays in quarters instead, lying on her own bunk now, counting ceiling panels.
Maya asks if she’s okay. Rina says yes. Maya doesn’t believe her but doesn’t push.
That night, Rina lies awake. Thinks about the kubo board. About the gold bands and the silver bands and the rankings that shift every week. About how she used to care. Used to think it mattered. Used to believe that climbing the ladder meant something.
Thinks about Anna’s hand, cold in hers. About the yellow skin and the machine beeping. About the choice Rina made and the choice Anna made and how neither of them could change what came after.
Thinks about Rotation Seven. About the protocol and the rules and the way they took Anna apart piece by piece—from person to patient to problem to gone.
Thinks about the ladder and realizes: it was never real. The credits, the ranks, the bands. Never real. Just colored plastic on locked bracelets. Just a game to keep them busy while the real rules—the unchangeable ones, the ones that kill you—operated underneath.
Maya is asleep in Anna’s old bunk. Breathing soft and even. Twelve per minute. Rina counts without meaning to. Then stops. Makes herself stop.
Tomorrow there will be agricultural rotation. Soil prep, greenhouse maintenance, whatever they assign. Rina will go. Will do the work. Will earn credits or not earn credits. Won’t care either way.
Won’t climb the ladder. Won’t play the game. Won’t pretend colored bands mean anything when people you love turn yellow and disappear.
Won’t be what they want her to be anymore. Will just be.
Whatever that means. Whatever that costs.
In the dark, Rina closes her eyes. Doesn’t count ceiling panels. Doesn’t count breaths. Doesn’t count anything.
Just lies there. Awake. Alone. Autonomous.
And that’s how the night passes.
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