Where had I put the exploration suit?

  I rarely took out any clothes at all, but I couldn’t even begin to remember where I’d stored the suit. Since arriving at Wilson, there had never been a reason to go outside, so I’d never once thought about needing it. Even on the day Wilson and I put on a private fashion show—half joking, half imagining some distant future when it might finally be useful (while hoping that day would never come)—I hadn’t taken it out, not even as a joke.

  As far as I could recall, the suit’s outer packaging looked almost identical to the food wrappers: the same dull color, the same texture. I only realized the truth after gathering every scrap of trash—halal and vegan MRE wrappers scattered chaotically across the floor—and tossing them all into one corner. The suit had been resting neatly in a drawer on the opposite side the whole time.

  I’d gagged through the process, picking up each package one by one, checking to see if any were labeled “exploration suit,” only to find out it had been right behind me all along. The realization made my blood boil. The suit probably didn’t house Wilson’s soul, but for a moment I wondered if it, too, had been mocking me from behind my back. I shoved aside the MRE trash, stepping over Wilson as I crossed the room. I tore into the packaging with more force than necessary—so much that I nearly ripped the suit itself, the way I had the other wrappers.

  At first glance, it looked ordinary. Muted colors, no different from the outside world. A thick goose-down jacket, just like the others. It was obviously good for the cold—but would it really protect me from radioactive fallout? There was nothing about its appearance that made radiation shielding intuitively clear. Still, the transparent film bore a radiation symbol, and that alone made it the most “survival-ready” piece of clothing in the room.

  When I tore the packaging open, the suit exploded outward, as if it had been compressed beyond reason—like tossing ten Mentos into a bathtub filled with soda. It swelled instantly, launching upward like a rocket and briefly blocking the blinds. For a moment—so brief yet horrifying—it went completely dark. Fear surged through me, and I yanked the blinds all the way up.

  I looked outside.

  Light was pouring in through the window far more brightly than usual. On closer inspection, most of the landscape was still gray, but the opposite shore looked so close it felt almost touchable, like I was at a warm seaside resort. It gave me the illusion of lounging inside a luxury yacht. It wasn’t bad. The beautiful women on the beach were nowhere to be found—though, truthfully, they never had been—but with this feeling, maybe today really was the day I could go out. Strength welled up in me for no reason at all.

  If someone had told me to leave this place a few months ago, I probably would’ve screamed, “Fuck you, just kill me instead!” I’d have raged for a minute, sure—but before five minutes passed, I’d have been begging: “Wilson, please don’t make me leave. I’ll try not to throw forks anymore.”

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  But things had changed. There was barely any water left. Hardly anything to eat. Even the basic systems—heating and the like—had all broken down. I couldn’t hold out here anymore. And most importantly, Wilson was probably dead.

  Trees stay standing long after they die, but given the conditions outside, there was no way a dead Wilson could last that long. “Little Wilson” had already collapsed. As I floundered among the scraps of packaging I’d torn apart while searching for the suit, a thought struck me—if Wilson had been pretending to be dead just to kill me, I’d want to kill him with my own hands. But even then, I couldn’t. Dead or alive.

  With Wilson gone, was it really right to go outside?

  Maybe it was okay not to live anymore. If I stayed here and waited for death, I’d still die far later than most people. That might not be enough, but it was true—I’d lived longer than almost anyone else. If an afterlife existed, I’d at least have a few extra stories to tell those already dead. Maybe that place would be better than this. If so, then the past few months had been nothing but pointless prolongation. This story would serve as a brief self-introduction in the afterlife before disappearing altogether. If that were the case, why wait for death at all? Why not just die now?

  But it would hurt, wouldn’t it?

  That day, people screamed every kind of scream imaginable—but no one screamed for long. The tearing noise stopped all at once. More than anything, that silence terrified me, and that was why I’d shut myself inside Wilson all this time.

  I don’t want to die.

  I want to live.

  As long as possible. I want to prolong my life.

  No matter how far my thoughts wandered, they always flowed back to Wilson, and it made me sick of myself. By then, the exploration suit had finished settling, lying neatly at my feet. It was heavier than I expected. I stepped into it one leg at a time, awkwardly, then reached for the zipper running up the back. The bulk made it hard to reach over my shoulder. I pressed my back against the wall scarred with fork marks, squatting and standing repeatedly. Using a small protrusion in the wall, I scraped the zipper upward. It made a strange whoosh as it rubbed against the surface, but eventually I managed to pull it all the way up.

  But how would I take it off again?

  Or when would I even get the chance?

  If it itched, could I scratch through it?

  I checked for leaks around the face. I checked again. And again. No problems.

  At last, it was time to open the door and step outside. There was no reason to think twice anymore. There was no room left to include Wilson in what I was about to do.

  I unlocked the steel door, secured with double latches. Through the crack poured a violent wind, impatient, chaotic—like predators rushing toward prey. It sounded like countless whistles echoing at once. Of course, the outside was familiar to me. It wasn’t where I was born, but it was where I’d grown up. And beneath the water’s surface lay everything I had ever known.

  Was that why it felt sad?

  I wasn’t sure. It felt more unfamiliar than anything—like meeting someone you’ve known forever, yet not knowing what level of greeting is appropriate. Awkward. No—more than that, this wasn’t familiar at all. Everything. Everything was beneath my feet.

  Ten meters from Wilson.

  No—now closer to three meters. I headed toward a rock. Without realizing it, my body moved on its own. I climbed up and clung to it desperately.