Outside, Portland's rain-slicked lights bled into streaks. She pressed her palm against the cold glass. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd still had a roommate, a job, a "situation." Now she had a one-way ticket to Seattle, three hundred dollars, and a cat who hated motion sickness.

Kit's tiny claws kneaded the carrier's mesh. Molly unlatched the door, and he bolted onto her lap, curling into a tight, vibrating ball. She rested her chin on his furry head.

The airlock cycled. Silence rushed in.

This was the job. The "Solo" in her moniker wasn't a family name; it was a job description. When corporations lost expensive hardware in the black void between Jupiter and Saturn, they didn’t send teams. Teams cost life support, liability insurance, and arguments. They sent a solo operator. They sent Molly Kit.

She whispered to Kit: "We're going to make it."