The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our suite, but the light feels different today. It is softer, warmer, carrying the golden hue of late autumn. It has been six months since the Genesis Accords were signed. Six months since the world officially acknowledged that the Earth was no longer just ours to manage, but ours to share.
I wake before dawn, the crisp Pacific Northwest air seeping through the cracked window. My left shoulder throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache, the nerve damage from the Mariana Trench frostbite flaring in the cold. Beside me, Kade is already awake. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, his right hand methodically strapping his carbon-fiber brace around his left shoulder. The empty sleeve of his sleep shirt is pinned neatly to
